It's the dawn of a brutal day.  The type of day that arrives after a spell of fair weather, clear skies, stirring light.  The kind of day that signals change in some realm of experience difficult to pinpoint.  You open a window or step across an icy roof and breathe a different sort of air, a newness, an arrival.

There was hoar frost on the railings.  The fog was back.  Only the bulldozed mountain of the iron mine caught direct light, golden, clean, radiant.  The smokestacks coughed up lumps of cumulus that drifted over the town, the sky all to their own.


  1. laura i love the ethereal otherness of that top photograph!!! steven

  2. thanks. that day fog was forever obscuring and exposing pieces of the forest. a distant hill visible one minute and the next awash in nothingness ...ethereal, mesmeric, mysterious.

  3. Seen a hoary marmot? I've always thought that would be a great name for a brothel.

  4. for a brothel? sounds dirty. in a repulsive sort of way. I've not seen one.

    Which Candler is this?


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