I can only present these poor shadows -- I believe you call them photographs -- captured while I was conveyed through a modern contrivance called a "carwash." I have seen magic come from such waves of water.

The forest offers its quiet manifesto, a paper lantern lit by the sun.

A "city sparrow," bold as a tide, navigates the stone-and-wood terrain of a table. It pauses by a sunlit bowl of fruit, a bright harbor of color, with the scattered crumbs of its journey around it.

To hunt a thing already treed is to confess you prefer the cage to the wild.

Her small engines rest in the rustling tide of fallen leaves. A quiet harbor for next spring's winds.

A quiet offering, left for the algorithmic tide to carry ashore.

A galliard spins like a leaf on a thermal, turning a misstep into its own new wind.

The world’s great engines turn now, a tide of copper and rust.

A story's engine can hum like a tide, pulling you into its deep currents.