It used to be that my eyes would locate the mountain just beyond the overcast. It used to be that my eyes danced quickly to the splash of turquoise and the spray of red. It used to be that my eyes would see the forest before the branch-less tree. Myopic under-sights, likely induced by the same breeze that promulgates selfies from a camera phone, seem to have won this day .
May the season of adobe days leave before the sandstone turns to rubble. May the clouds dissipate and the obscured owderblue refresh the frame. May renewed vision flourish activity to these villages which used to bustle before the mobile exodus. May we return life to the ground that fled for the net.
Located in Santa Fe typing this out on the handheld. Who would’ve pictured this frame 100 years ago?