There is a farm that I pass a few times a week. Well, I normally pass it, but I’ve also stopped by the side of the road to take photographs of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve taken down my license plate number just in case. I stopped when an early summer storm was brewing and the chickens were hiding under the coop beneath a sky filled with dragon clouds. When the Christmas lights lit up the enormous tree hanging over the road and when a full red moon hung low over the pastures. One gray morning on my way to work I stopped to shoot the dew covered weeds in the meadow. Everything looked muted that morning, there was a dense fog—the type I dreaded that I would see every day in Maine but it actually happens very infrequently. The sun was just making its way over the hill so the few trees in the background were somber silhouettes. Queen Anne’s Lace blossoms were the tallest in the foreground; some were opened wide and flat, others in a tight ball. What would make two of the same flowers right next to each other greet the day so differently?
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