Go grab a handful of mud and plant a tiny seed. A bean, a pea, a cherry tree; and mark it with a stick.

Then watch it grow and weed it so. And eat it when it's done. And tell the world about your seed, and give them all some mud. 

Running, grinning, posing without prompt, a golden fidget spinner in the hand and plastic leis as vibrant crowns.

You’ll find all that and more, perhaps, should you be invited to photograph an 11th birthday party in the middle of July in Ontario.

And a photographer sitting in the grass, as a giant water balloon falls right on her crotch: risks of the trade.

The mare curls her lip and butts the Kid in the face. He falls backwards, lands on his butt in the wet grass, starts to cry. There's no blood, no scrapes, no bruises, but the Kid's heart hurts. He's lost his surety, maybe his trust. Some horses are like that, Kid, I tell him. You gotta be careful. But some horses aren't. You just can't know it on the outside.

I’m not worried about what lies above,

I am concerned with what emerges.

How meaning comes to be.

How lines and dots and shadow

come to resemble memories

that fade

and are extinguished once you’re gone.

where we expect only the aftermath of drought,

there is sometimes, also, 

barefaced life.