"I watched at the window; I watched at the creek.  A new wind lifted the hair on my arms.  The cold light was coming and going between oversized, careening clouds; patches of blue, like a ragged flock of protean birds, shifted and stretched, flapping and racing from one end of the sky to the other.  Despite the wind, the air was moist; I smelled the rich vapor of loam around my face and wondered again why all that death--all those rotten leaves that one layer down are black sops in white webs of mold, all those millions of dead summer insects--didn't smell worse.  When the wind quickened, a stranger, more subtle scent leaked from beyond the mountains, a disquieting fragrance of wet bark, salt marsh , and mud flat..."

-Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Thanksgiving Day

Tinker Creek, MB

Nikon FE2, 50mm