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Ice
There generally isn’t a lot of ice where I live now. Enough to skid out in the dark, but not much to photograph–or to describe, since black ice seems to demand an absence of description. It’s an unseeable hazard, or a cold mirage, flip side to the illusory oasis all those cartoon desert stragglers seem…
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The Observer in the Frame
We spent the last days of August backpacking in the Three Sisters Wilderness, one of my favorite places on earth. Camped on a mini-ridge above Camp Lake, we watched the moon rise–fast!–and then the sunset and then, just barely (hurling myself out of the tent toward the pink glow, tangled in tent flaps and sleeping…
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In search of lost pictures
A mysterious tech glitch having eaten a quantity of pictures off my memory card, I have tried to reconstruct what it was I saw, what I thought I wanted to remember. Snapping quick photos as a memory aid, it’s easy not to look carefully enough; many of the plants are lost to me now, vague…
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Borders, Boundaries, Aerial Photographs
Not having taken any such, I wrote a poem once called “Aerial Photograph.” Years ago, but I still like the poem. Here it is, with several aerial photographs of a quite different landscape: the Andes at the border between Argentina and Chile, taken on a flight from Buenos Aires to Guayaquil. I was irritated when…