Wyoming – and you’d be forgiven for thinking that mountains, mountains should be the subject of all things photographed – has placed me squarely between its uplifted, crunching jaws. Survival means strength, jumping from between the crashing machinery not at the last moment, but when I tire of growing ever more capable of: survival, love, patience, bearing witness. Sentience. Seeing. Hearing the air speak in sentences that instruct me to look.
Water drips from eaves — snow having been it’s previous, and oft maligned, evolution. Spring has not quite yet come to 6200ft, and all of us curious lovers of seasons await this one both for its allowed remembrances of the past and its uncanny ability to create anew. Flurries flair from a sky that is sun bright if ill-defined. Radios cackle distant – those simple waves sent from the pale blue hearts of abstract, but climbable peaks? A truck that looks the way it smells – old – carries me down roads that have been swept eternally clear by invisible scourings of wind from Idaho and Montana; mistress breezes that turn the corners of my perfect lips up into something of snared smile.
For the time being, this place is a wondrous, distilled home. Perspective both winnows and explodes. This language wanders marvelous, with strides that cross state lines. Brushing my teeth means watching the golden valley below shade black with the shadows of passing clouds. Walking means robins courting like two clapped hands. Ravens spiral out of the shapeless sun. Moose drain creeks. Birds of prey swarm like thoughts of god. The sky is a rolling thunder of all things gray, white, and blue. I’m a boy with the imagination blender set to puree. Give me it all! [Please].