Return to Where I Stand Year Two gallery Return to Where I Stand main page
Wet dank puddle pocked mud.
Salt bleached strained wood planks.
Hollow thuds as steps strike layered ground.
Sweet sting of half decayed leaves as they unthaw against the new air.
Clear white pieces of square salt unable to exist anywhere outside itself, unabsorbed, foreign.
The new air holding itself close to the surface of the ground, hoping to go unnoticed.
It is the mix of the beginning and ending, all compressed into a single middle that struggles loudly for attention.