woodpile

the farm. december 2012.

i can never wait to go back there. it feels like camp, like a little slice of camping, like a family vacation where everyone is actually happy. i love it there. it's my favorite place to take photographs.

how deep are we?

the farm. november 2012.

i like how the orange-blossomed mistletoe is out of focus.

isn't that light just gorgeous?

the farm. thanksgiving 2012.

the back road, where nobody goes. a road up a hill and off the property. orange-blossomed mistletoe clumping on rough oak branches. poison oak twigs with no leaves but still filled with oils. a hazy sky sun that isn't trying to shine brighter. sitting at the kids table when you're thirty-one.

late afternoon light

the farm. november 2012.

after the sun

the farm. december 2011.

twilight water

the farm. december 2011.

who is the fairest of them all?

the farm. december 2011.

up and down, on a knoll

 

the farm. december 2011. 

headed to camp early tomorrow. listening to etta james and the peaches. quiche and cookies for the ride. friends and music to pass the time. bear dog at the end.

still lives

 

the farm. december 2011. 

christmas eve

the farm. december 2011.

out for a walk at sundown on the farm, in the hills above santa rosa. family strolling around in groups with coats on, or standing on the porch, or just lounging inside, warm.

Looking Through the Glass

Near Santa Rosa. 2008.

Oak

The Farm. 2009.

Naked

The Farm. 2009.

weightless          thoughtless
stillness          touchless
blue  green  clear  silt

wrinkled oak trees above the surface
chlorine sting in the corners of the eyes
my toes, bent with the light

water sneaking past the air in my ear
a gentle stroke on the ankle by an unseen beast
air, waiting, just above

i go down for the quiet
i stay for the water pouring all over my skin, up and down
for the stone colors that never stay when they dry
naked, no matter what i wear
naked, in the water, before myself
naked to my own eyes

Bones

The Farm, Santa Rosa, CA. 2009.

I don't have anything to say about this pile of bones, so instead, here's a poem for Raciel.

Pick up you, little girl.
There's the slats of the bed, falling down.
They need righting.
Lay you down on the dark floor
And reach under your slumbering place
To your dust-covered toys,
Your infant clothes saved for wistfulness only.
Pick up you, little girl,
And reach through that rust metal frame.
Latch on to that floating timber,
That pine support for your dreams.

The Farm; The Light

I love this picture. I took it Labor Day Weekend in 2008, near Santa Rosa. It's late afternoon. Family is spread out, some in the pool, some sitting on the porch, talking. Bare feet up on empty chairs. A beer in the left hand as the right gestures out, following a point home.

Warm dry air sliding across almost-dry skin. Too cool for a moment, a chill up the neck and down the arms, and then warmth again. Rich cheese, spilled out of its shell, forming a puddle of delicious fat on the plate. Hand me a cracker, will you? No, the round one.