December’s windless valley, dusk.

Never was such a hush shared. Everything’s noise is shouldered. Trees silent, tip to root, not unsettled; they hear the heartbeat sea deep down. Here, many miles inland a frightened gull snaps his landsick call, wagers forgiveness for a beacon. I call inward – no joy to gamble and no voice for this quiet, knowing it would lonely echo forever without the wind to move it, to shape it to something truer than when it was spoken. How else do common men respect themselves? Stagnant and lingering, the sky is hanging. With it, mingled among the fog are breath and exhaust, will and action still where they were. A curtain to walk through, air chilled to white, overcome by blue.

17 thoughts on “December’s windless valley, dusk.

  1. The shot’s and words are incredibly moving, James. They bring strong emotions to this viewer, they remind him of cold dark nights, of waiting, the endlessly, lingering wait…

    Beautiful post.

  2. These photographs succeed in creating the air of mystery that you intended. They remind me of some of the darkly printed monochrome (black and white) images I remember from Stieglitz and others a century ago.

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