The old granary at the end of the muddy road has carried whispers since Prohibition—of hidden rooms, midnight barrels, and trucks that came and left without headlights. Nothing was ever proven, yet the sharp scent of those dangerous nights still hangs in the air, as if the building refuses to let its secrets rest.
For generations, the old tree beside the stream has stood as a silent witness to the passing of time. It remembers laughter in the fields, storms that tested its strength, and the stillness that followed. In its voice lies the patience of the earth, the endurance of nature, and the gentle wisdom of all that stays when everything else moves on.
At Dinkins Bay, dawn arrives gently—filtering through bare branches, gilding boats and cottages in soft gold, and wrapping the water in a hush of mist. In that brief stillness, time feels suspended, and the day begins like a whispered secret.
They called her The Monarch Limited—a hard train, proud with her whistle and black with coal smoke. One autumn night, she carried me west, past soldiers, strangers, and sleeping passengers, until dawn broke over the fields. Steam rose at a quiet station where I stepped down, the rails still humming in my bones, as the train pressed on without me.
After her husband’s passing, Mrs. Langford turned grief into grace, opening her Victorian farmhouse to artists seeking peace. Painters, poets, and musicians found inspiration in her gardens and meadows, where each day ended with shared laughter on the porch. What was once a working farm became a sanctuary where creativity and healing grew wild together. After her husband’s passing, Mrs. Langford turned grief into grace, opening her Victorian farmhouse to artists seeking peace. Painters, poets, and musicians found inspiration in her gardens and meadows, where each day ended with shared laughter on the porch. What was once a working farm became a sanctuary where creativity and healing grew wild together.
The rusting hull and peeling paint of Rust Bucket tell a story of time’s relentless march, where strength fades into memory and purpose gives way to history. It is a reminder that even the most resilient are eventually claimed by time, leaving only traces of what once was—a vessel adrift in the currents of loss and remembrance
Elias rose before the sun, moving through bone-deep cold and trees stripped bare by time. On the silent river, he rowed toward his eel traps—an old rhythm, a quiet life. Beneath the surface, something ancient stirred, but the man asked little of the day. Enough was all he ever needed.
I am adrift in solitude, untethered and uncertain of my place. The fog is so dense I can taste its damp weight on my tongue, wrapping me in a veil of quiet isolation. Yet, in this sightless cocoon, my other senses awaken with a keenness I’ve never known. A distant warbler’s song drifts through the mist, the scent of ancient loam fills my lungs, and for a moment, I am nowhere—only here. But solitude cannot last. The sky clears, the world stirs, and a buzz in my pocket reminds me: I am no longer lost.
Chasing Windmills - and the Milky Way