A journalist I am not

Portraiture is possibly my favorite form of photography. Faces show character in every laugh line, every weathered wrinkle, in tan lines left by always-worn sunglasses, in the trickle of sweat through trail dust. In the scraggly beards of men who have walked the woods for weeks. On our drive through Catawba valley, my husband said, … Continue reading A journalist I am not


Paper-thin ice juts from the curb. Delicate, like sheets of sugar glass, it glistens in the sun. Sodden white clumps drop from trees – splash! into slushy puddles in the yard. Slick branches drip. Drip. Drip. Snowmelt trickles down roofs. Street gutters gurgle and gush. The neighborhood burbles merrily like a clear mountain stream. I … Continue reading Thaw