Watching hawks at the dirtjumps by the railroad tracks. A great deal of beauty flying over my head. A group of crows in the scrub brush near by exclaim their disapproval of what I see as a flying painting. There will always be that bird that disagrees with you it seems.
When the sun sets I head inside and sit at the desk. look onto the page and develop the film from my memories right there in my own darkroom with lights on bright.