This, this early morning, this early summer light, light that poured between the branches and washed the earth; a sacred painting of shapes that ripened and eroded. Filaments that flooded and scorched, yellow-veined light that emptied itself on scarred dirt. He could be standing anywhere in that moment, or nowhere; it was the febrile sway of a dance, a pantomime of seduction and reduction.
Cars in the background, music from the trees, it was all one thing, living in an impermanent photograph. And then the moment was gone. He was a kid walking down the street again. The decaying reek of the river returned him to homely mortality.
Ordinary Handsome 
Must be cool to be a gifted photographer AND writer. Sweet!
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Aw, thanks. I can’t draw or paint, and that’s really cool!
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I was floating and about to reach cloud 9 while I was reading it but your last few sentences brought me back to earth unceremoniously. hahahahaaa. I still love it 😉
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Thank you…moments are fleeting, but the memories go on. 🙂
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True indeed
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So awesome, Steven. 🙂
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Thanks, Diana. 🙂
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