Based on photographs by Ansel Adams.
Sunset, Ghost Ranch, 1937
The way light falls clouds could become
an abacus: summing, totaling, subtracting.
First to penumbra then to iridescence.
If clouds had black & white flecked
wings like a speckled flicker: evanescent,
eloquent: each would have it’s own
unpredictable destiny, alighting for an
instant, stunningly embellished.
Sunrise, Laguna Pueblo, 1937
Major chords enter percussive,
across the scene from left, bend
around corners, sound-bounce reflections
from mudded walls. Woke-dog stands solid on
four legs, ears up, tail illumined, face eclipsed.
Indentations in the foot-travelled dirt shatter light
like bitten glass. Stone walls glitter silver as a
tin-mercury mirror amalgam refracts. Not long
ago a west wind moved through here and left the
clouds a mess: inconsolable wisps. As if they were
broken in a dissonant crescendo. Lost, torn-up, scared. The
tall adobe church walls look smooth to the touch, as if made
from ivory, golden fine butter cream, corn silk, old lace,
goat skin—its polished, caressed body newly awakening.