The tide left a line of foam along the sand like handwriting nobody stayed to read. I photographed it twice, then let it go — some things are only for the water and the morning.

An old man at the counter ordered the same thing he's ordered, the waitress said, for eleven years. I didn't take his picture. Some faces ask you not to.

Light through a west window at four o'clock does something to a room that no lamp has ever managed — it doesn't illuminate so much as forgive.

Drove two hours for a ridge that was supposed to be clear and found it wrapped in fog instead. Stayed anyway. The fog turned out to be the photograph.

My grandmother pressed flowers between the pages of books she never finished. I found four of them this week, still holding their color, still marking her place.