TREES #9

I tread wearily across the bare of grass; each blade soaked with droplets of early morning dew that shimmer celestial to the world above, folding to a damp collective with each footstep. The trees hang their sombre heads, shifting in a slight of soft wind that graze against bark furrowed like the cracked skin of an every day drunk eyeing indifferent to the earth through empty eyes. Slowly the sun begins to throw her locks through the din of a steely-blue dawn, skimming the ground before me to a golden-edged orchestra of existence.

pinholes 35.jpg

Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.