I grew up in a woody suburb. My backyard was an old growth cemetery. Every year a storm with winds like a tornado, or a heavy, wet snow would take down another tall oak or evergreen. The destruction made the yard feel alive. It yielded to change in the most natural way and each season I found new emotions in its depth.

The screen flicked to night mode and broke my trance long enough to refocus. From a slouched position at the end of the table, I extended my right arm to the side of the laptop and my tiny white companion and I continued to roam the cold wooden surface clicking aimlessly through old Hic-et-nunc pieces.

River wide

River high

Let's ask them why

The river ran dry