14.
Trespassing through the home of things wilder and wiser than us
It belongs to claw, to wing, to the slow patience of moss. And yet, we come. We stand at its edge with our cameras, our awe, our noise.
Light catches on the spray, fracturing into prisms that dance across the stone—half fire, half ghost.
Fields spread out.. life is quietly rehearsing its return—unfolding, unfurling, beginning again.
