 So Alberto is about to give us a heavy glancing blow—great beginning to a hurricane season that doesn't start until next Friday! I leave for Wyoming tomorrow, just as the heavy rains begin to hit our area—we'll see how that goes. This will be the last post until I return—I hope with images that are not just stereotypical ones of the Tetons and Yellowstone.
 Somehow when I saw this, the first thing that sprang to my mind was the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Funny what watching pols in (in)action may affect other parts of one's thinking . . .
Rain, rain, rain, last week and this. Next week I'm going to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone; perhaps the anticipation of that, along with the sometimes nearly all day rains, helps explain why I recently haven't found much here to photograph. So, my posts may taper off for a while, til I get back probably.  Teklanika River, Denali Park, Alaska: when I look a this, I see sadness: this is a river which has proven to be deadly for many people. It looks so harmless, but when the rains come, it swells and becomes dangerous and impassible. Imagine then standing on one side or the other and not being able to get to the other side. And looking at that tree, I think about what John O'Donohue wrote:
"Become subtle enough To hear a tree breathe."  Ah! life at the beach
so calm, so restful, just perfect though here too, sometimes . . .  Thomas Merton: "Zen is consciousness unstructured by particular form or particular system . . .But it can shine through this or that system, religious or irreligious, just as light can shine through glass that is blue, or green, or red, or yellow. If Zen has any preference it is for glass that is plain, has no color, and is 'just glass." Translation (mine): see what is without any preconceptions of what it is or should be . . . Just see, just hear, just touch, taste, smell, be present . . .
Reflections and Shadows Teju Cole: "More than the work itself, its form, its genre, its existence in tangible form, what interests me is the secret channel that connects the work to other work. Tarkovsky calls it 'poetry,' this link that allows different kinds of excellence to understand one another , , ,
Nothing that remains solely within its genre succeeds as poetry. When I make a work, no matter how small, no matter how doomed to forgotten, only its poetic possibility interests me, those moments in which it escapes into some new being. If everything else succeeds but the poetry fails, then everything has failed. Poetry is precisely that which can be translated in higher (or perhaps I mean inarticulable) realms. When one encounters these diverse forms of poetry, there is a certainty that they are mystically related to one another: everything is there, everything . . ."  Spring: Magnolias have been really fine this year; waiting now for the Poinciana.
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