i swear that the eloquently spare white lines in this gray stone are not not painted on, but are the sandwiching of an impossibly thin layer of quartz between loaves of gray granite (i believe). it makes me want to play with a japanese sumi brush, like some guy who just watched the world series, and feels an obscure urge to go play catch.

mediterranean beach rock

sète, france

start at the bottom of this spill of flowers, and move clockwise all the way around to the bottom again. did the colors arrange themselves in r.o.y.g.b.i.v order, or did i arrange them that way without knowing it? is this how the universe speaks, when it wants to be heard? all i know is that i did not intentionally arrange this collection with the colors of the spectrum in mind. i only noticed it as i stared at the photo trying to think of something to say about it.

dried mid-summer flowers

st. paul, minnesota

it’s gotta be a femur, right? yeah. it’s gotta be a wild boar, right? yeah. it’s been here for a long time, right? yeah. it smells bad, doesn’t it? yeah. should we take it home? yeah. mom will want to take a photo, right? yeah. this was the conversation between my husband and my newly taciturn 13 year old son, when they found this bone on the bed of a trout stream in the upper reaches of the orb valley in the languedoc. testosterone is a powerful drug. and my formerly sweet and eloquent and affectionate son is currently experiencing a surge of muscle building and one-word answers.

sun bleached and gnawed bone

languedoc, france

ok, minnesota. i can tell you’re doing your best to win me back. no snow on the ground. a few 50 degree february days. and now this. a crystalline dusting of snow to etch the tips of the conifers. well i shouldn’t admit this but it’s working. keep this up much longer and it might be time to put a ring on it.

snow covered white cedar branch

saint paul, minnesota

our next-door neighbor in france, jean-luc, has never owned a computer, and when asked whether he ever misses having email, he tends to wave an invisible blanket up and down in front of himself and ask, “what’s wrong with smoke signals?” today, my husband received a first email from jean-luc, who received a computer for christmas, and who has relented and decided to join the 21st century, although his attitude about life belongs so beautifully in any number of previous centuries. just seeing jean-luc’s name on a computer screen this afternoon, one month into tax season, in the middle of a minnesota winter, was as evocative for steve as a plate of bright silver sardines, fresh from the mediterranean. jean-luc’s bittersweet subject line read, “the end of smoke signals.”

sardines

mediterranean sea near valras plage, france