This land has seen me before.
A fragment of the past year.
Black locust casts its future on the beaver pond ice.
Summer’s abundance was here.
All in good time, a return to the source.
Weatherbeaten cattail heads huddle at the edge of a beaver swamp.
A sheltered rush amidst the silence.
Inside out, between the ice and the mountain.
Singular delicacy in a muted landscape.
An open winter, January rain on the Great Bend.