In February, amongst Yellowstone’s geysers, the earth’s breath ascends into a frigid winter day.
I’ll lift you and you lift me, and we’ll both ascend together. — John Greenleaf Whittier
Thompson’s Flouring Mills, the oldest surviving grist mill in Oregon, viewed through a window in the Millkeeper’s house, and (below) the millrace passing below the main building during a rainstorm.
People everywhere love Windows. —Bill Gates
Meeting a friend at a local café to talk about photography and life has become a Sunday ritual for me. Our preferred shop is smallish; the background music doesn’t intrude too far into quiet conversation, and the drinks are just right. In the spring and summer we take our refreshments outside to a table, but by late November the furniture has been put away and rainy days, like today, have returned.
Puddles were growing on the sidewalk outside as I sipped my coffee. I watched people passing, headed to the several stores surrounding the café. But there was something about these folks, on this morning, strange and yet familiar all at once. With three shopping weeks left before Christmas, almost no one appeared to be hurrying.
Oregon once owned an honest reputation for wet weather, but recent drought years have tarnished that. Like many others, I’ve forgotten the sound of rain beating steadily on a rooftop. Perhaps those passersby, like me, were comforted by the return of its voice to autumn’s relaxing choir.
Does a moment of genuine peace ever seem rare?
In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule. —Friedrich Nietzsche