Field Note:
No one tells you the field follows you home.
It stays in the corners—
in the way light leans across a wall,
in the pause before you name what you’re seeing.
I thought I was documenting it.
But something quieter was happening—
attention, learning how to hold still
long enough for the world to arrive.
Not everything wants to be captured.
Some things just want to be noticed
and left intact.
Field Note
April 26 — silver sky, frozen white
I didn’t place it there.
The curve was already forming—
quiet, unannounced.
Some shapes recognize you
before you recognize yourself.
I only followed the line
until it answered back.
Field Note — May 2
Sunrise, Mist
Mist lifts.
The world forgets its edges.
Geese pass through—
not across the sky,
but through it—
as if distance were something you could enter.
Foreground, background—irrelevant.
Everything is in transit.
Even me,
watching.
Field Note - MAY 3
Weather: 17% sincerity, 1 incoming system of corporate optimism moving in at 12 km/h through spruce apologies. Barometric pressure fluctuating between “almost meaning” and “don’t overthink it.” Wind lightly plagiarizing the trees and attributing itself in small footnotes.
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker on payroll.
Beverage can on interpretation duty.
Spruce remains unionized and unbothered.
Field Note — May 9, 2026
Atmospheric conditions: 14°C. Mountain light scattered through passing cloud like torn silk. Visibility excellent except in matters concerning language. Winds moving upslope at 9 km/h, carrying the faint suspicion that the earth still knows how to astonish us on purpose. Barometric pressure steady beneath the ribs.
We rounded the bend and the mountain seemed to burst open mid-dream. Shooting stars flooded the meadow in vivid magenta, so unreal I half expected them to rise together and drift into the sky. For a moment it felt possible to navigate entirely by astonishment, as though these small terrestrial constellations had appeared to point the way forward. I sat there staring out the window with that strange ache beauty leaves behind—the feeling that some moments are too magical to survive translation into words, as though language had been left behind at the bend, outpaced by what it tried to name.
Field Note: June 11, 2026
Some mornings arrive with the feeling that the world has briefly dressed itself in metaphor.
Weather / atmospheric conditions: still air, bright clear light, the pond holding its surface like a thought not yet spoken. Colors vivid and fully awake, as if the morning had turned up the saturation and invited everything to announce itself.
On this one, a duck moved across the water as if it had forgotten it was only a duck. From its bill trailed a tangle of aquatic vegetation—green strands that, to me, looked like reins.
My first thought was:
We ride at dawn.
As if this gadwall had somewhere important to be, setting out on a quest known only to itself, equipped with nothing more than confidence and salad.
It made me laugh.
And then, it didn’t.
Because there is always that second layer—the quiet one that arrives after humor—where the image begins to mean something else entirely.
How often do I wait for life to be corrected before I allow myself to move?
As if clarity is a requirement for motion.
As if wholeness must come before departure.
Meanwhile, dawn happens without permission.
Perhaps nothing is ever truly “ready.”
Perhaps I am simply invited into the current as it is.
With laughter.
With curiosity.
With mud on my boots—or wheels beneath me.
With spirit beside me, whether I notice it or not.
The sun rises regardless of who is mounted on what.
A mighty stallion.
Or a duck drifting through pond light, wearing salad for reins.
Field conclusion: there are many ways to travel through the world.
Some are solemn. Some are absurd. Some are on wheels
All of them begin at dawn.
Field Note: June 16, 2026
Visual shapeshifting, from wildflower pussytoes to wild prowler pussy toes
Four clustered pussytoes observed in low grass, at first appearing as ordinary wildflowers. Under closer attention, the cluster begins to suggest motion. Four blooms begin behaving like paws, evenly spaced in a way that implies stride. The plant does not change position, yet the impression persists that something has just passed through the grass.
A second configuration emerges: a low, elongated presence close to the earth, belly nearly brushing the grass.
Even the name becomes slippery. “Pussytoes” and “pussy toes” oscillate between botanical classification and anatomical suggestion, where plant and paw occupy the same descriptive field.
Weather / Whether Conditions: Atmospheric state is calm, with minimal wind. The air holds steady enough to suggest pause, as though movement itself is liminal.
At the level of whether, perception becomes the active weather system. The distinction between plant and animal begins to loosen, and what is seen depends less on fixed categories than on attention, framing, and a willingness to let the mystery stand. Shapes rise and condense like moisture, becoming recognizable for a moment before dissolving back into the field.
For a moment, flower and prowler share the same patch of grass. Nothing has changed position, and yet the impression remains that something small and wild has just passed through, as if the field briefly practiced visual shapeshifting.
Field Note: June 30, 2026
The Sketchy Oracle
Location: Central Alberta Marsh
Time: Early evening
Weather / atmospheric conditions: Windless evening beneath a blanket of mosquito-grey cloud. The light settled evenly across the marsh, flattening contrast above the cattails while the deeper grasses kept their own secrets.
The mosquitoes were the only creatures in the marsh that had absolutely no interest in mystery. They knew exactly where I was.
Above the cattails, Red-winged and Yellow-headed Blackbirds chased one another through the air—adults and fledglings tangled in fast, looping pursuit—calls ricocheting across the marsh in sharp bursts of warning and insistence.
Except the mallards.
They chose silence.
Just two heads moving through the tall grass. The drake slightly higher than the hen. Their bills pointing in opposite directions, as if reading two different chapters of the same story.
It looked like a sketch.
Or maybe...
a sketchy oracle.
Just two ducks moving through the grass like a sentence with half its words missing.
Perhaps that's how good oracles work.
They leave enough unsaid that you have to become part of the answer.
The stars probably understood immediately.
A double-header.
Jupiter turning up the volume on authenticity.
The drake, halfway through his molt, offering the only translation I was likely to get:
Become who you were before you started explaining yourself.
Then they disappeared.
The blackbirds kept arguing.
The mosquitoes kept feeding.
The marsh, having delivered its prophecy, declined all follow-up questions.
Field Note: July 8, 2026
Beyond the Static
Location: Central Alberta Marsh
Time: Late evening
Weather / atmospheric conditions: The sky was a wash of pale red haze, thickened by the ghost of distant smoke. The sun hung suspended—a white medallion piercing the dusty veil. Around it, layers of cloud caught the last low rays, their underbellies brushed with saffron and spun gold.
A light breeze etched interference lines across the water, turning the surface into something that looked less like ripples and more like static, as though the landscape had briefly lost its signal.
Then a Pied-billed Grebe drifted through.
It never hesitated. Without changing its pace, it crossed an invisible boundary where the fractured water gave way to smooth calm. For a heartbeat, the water reflected nothing but the grebe.
Then, almost impossibly, it folded into the water without a sound and disappeared beneath the mirror.
Maybe peace isn't a place we arrive.
Maybe it's the quiet moment we stop carrying the noise with us.
The static remained behind.
The grebe did not.