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My body has returned to the road. Yet my eyes are a thousands miles behind, still squinting at images from an entirely different season. It is an elusive thing, the photographer's vision. When you are in possession of it, the world sits on the head of a pin. Wherever you look, up or down, left or right, a rectangle of beauty awaits you. It is a beautiful thing, this vision, and not something to trifle with. For when it slips away, without so much as a nudge in the dark, it is not restored like keys to a pocket. It is an exquisite mist whose drift you cannot stalk. You must let go its memory. And wander in hope.

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Winter's Mist
August 2009