The sun is setting behind the cottages across this narrow lake.

Warned by the bright orange cone, I look down at the jutting sidewalk and think, “There’s humor here.”

The old woman in the hotel breakfast area is holding court.

The speaker I am about to scribe has a message for me from Steve Jobs.

These weeds are like some kind of alien invasion.

Leaning in, holding my breath, I raise my camera toward the coiled rattlesnake.

The floating lure hits the water with a plop, sending ripples out in neat concentric circles.

The more basic a thing is, the easier it is to take for granted.

The fields are overjoyed this morning.

On a balmy night in Chicago, I am wondering what I have learned not to notice.

Purple is a scented hue.

I know what it’s like for a dream to feel like hunger.