Tag Archives: field

sentinels of the lost

sentinels of the lost © 2016 Jered Dawnne

sentinels of the lost © 2016 Jered Dawnne

and then like rain these fetters fall and crash upon the floor

windows on a world and pictures moving sway and tumble
come to me and sweet-surrounded water-torn love me
sing to me your songs of love and unity and peace and joy
and i shall sing to you and cling forever like the dawn’s sun rising warm

when winter comes and covers me in cold and blanket screaming
warm me with your heart and soul and spirit and your strength
and like these cracking windows melt and break the chains that bind me


of bluer skies and rain © 1988 Jered Dawnne, published 1993 in “The Sabre”

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pensive stasis

pensive stasis (ordinal) © 2016 Jered Dawnne

pensive stasis (ordinal) © 2016 Jered Dawnne

i was on my way somewhere, the day i took this, and this was the last photo i took before i went there.

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birds take flight at my approach

birds take flight at my approach

they did not know, could not know, really, that i would never harm them. more than a casual observer am i, yes, but my instrusiveness is ever incidental. they’d have flown away eventually, i know, but i was nonetheless sad to see them go. of course, had they been perched upon the stalks of prairie grass, as they were when i first found them, they’d not been quite as picturesque. but their numbers somehow exploded when i came near, for the ones that i had seen at first were less than what was there.

the prairie is a profoundly remarkable place, full of things you’d never expect, and fuller still of that resolute beauty: the kind that really only speaks to you after the birds have flown away and left the grasses empty for a time.

were i still welcome in the places where i took these walkabouts so many years ago, i’d walk about them differently. i would follow the birds this time as they move from place to place, so that the journey would be constantly filled with the liveliness of their voices and the profundity of their absence, with every step, with every breath, with every glance, and every moment.

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solace, twain

solace, twain © 2014 Jered Dawnne

solace, twain © 2014 Jered Dawnne

i didn’t know, when i first saw these trees, how much they would stick with me. this original photograph is from 2006, about two-and-a-half years after i’d moved to the property this photograph was shot from. i didn’t actually risk the trespassing to shoot these trees from several angles until we sold that house another two years later. so before i left, i made one final trip around the area and saw the thing i was already pretty sure i knew—a thing i suspected, but couldn’t really see from our property: the two trees do not actually entwine above the ground. i’m sure their roots are all wrapped within each other, but above the surface of the earth, both trees are independent, though obviously complementary.

i managed to recover the raw image from a drive i thought was dead last night and was very pleased to rediscover this particular image. when i shot this, these trees were still an “it” (a double tree) to me. retouching it last night, i could only think of it as “them” (two separate trees), despite knowing they are fundamentally entwined beneath the ground. with some minor manipulation, i was finally able to bring out what should have been more than a suspicion to me at the time. the specific direction of the wind that morning caused the rime to build only on the north-most tree.

for the time that i lived there, these trees meant a lot of different things to me, but in these latter days, it has come to represent living here in a generally simplistic sense. i’m fairly well engrained within the community, but i very much stand alone. the challenge, and the joy, are the various collaborations within our differences, the strength we draw from one another, and the way we shape the wind.

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