Inland Northern trail near Mt. Shasta, laboring up the dusty trail, hot and sweaty. But look up, where “… over everything the glory will be a canopy.”
Coastal mossy madrona along the Dipsea Trail. ” … how is the wood of a vine different from that of a branch from any of the trees in the forest?” Or a blanket of moss from leaves?
Azalea or rhododendron? “Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come …”
Texture on the hiking trail
Texture of light and brick in Sacramento
And what about the elastic texture of time? It flies smoothly when having fun, yet drags roughly when dutifully dogging work.
I’ve not had time to capture or create an image to express this taffy-pull challenge of returning to work, that necessary reality tugging time from photography. And, therein lies the rub of my existential Which Way Photo Challenge: take time to make a living or make time to take a photo.
All hail the end of the COVID-battical!
Last full moon waning — last on the DSLR
Last trail trekked — last on the cell camera
After the rain, as the day ends, the setting sun ignites the clearing clouds.
Outdoor dining at Winnemucca Lake, Round Top Mountain ahead
For every bark, there is a season.
“a season for every activity under the heavens: … a time to uproot …
… a time to tear down …
… a time to scatter …
… a time to embrace … and a time for peace.”
… on the moss tops of the rocks outside my window today, teasing me to catch the light as it danced into and reflected from the moss. I never quite tagged it.
“Come and see the works of God, Who is awesome in His deeds toward the sons of man.”
The final view on a hike in Hidden Falls Regional Park.
“the wisdom that comes from above is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.”
“Peacemakers who sow in peace shall reap a harvest of righteousness.”
After the bloom … before deep winter … red-gold leaves on December’s flowering pear tree. “For every thing, there is a season ….”
Whatever is true and pure … focus there … and give thanks.
At the top of the world, little grows in the dead of winter … and yet the sun brings forth hope.
Winter’s a beach
Reflections on the mists of creation.