In the ends of October the world paints fairytales like Arthur Rackham, grey and grave. Evening skies move in a muted tint of creamy ash, transparent washes of color across the clouds; the earth below them a pencil-box of burnished coppers and fawns and only the darkest greens, everything outlined in india ink, bare branches against the burning mountains. Just up the rise, in the lull of the lot between cabins, we meet our deer neighbors in the fading fall and we blink at each other awhile, my doe-eyed sister a reflection of their quiet perspicacity, watching, waiting. For what? I watch their ears, the subtle pivot of a circling satellite dish attuned to possibility--a twig snapped, a tree felled, a beetle on the wing. I watch their lean long legs and their stork-strut through the dying grasses, I watch the flip of their winter-white tails as they disappear into the darkening firs. I watch them go. In the quiet you can hear the world turn.
mt. timpanogos | successful creek crossing | football on the front lawn | the boys | ally + naomi
faerie crown | christian + kimberly | my sister the dancer | requisite asian moment