After the Rain

From the field note

It rained around four. Enough that the lights went out. Then came back. Then went out again. Three times the house reminded us that weather still gets a vote. By evening, I took the camera outside. I wasn't looking for a bird or a snake or something rare. I went outside to photograph dirt. The grass. The dead things mixed with the living things. The places where nothing seemed to be growing at all. A few hours earlier, rain had fallen over all of it, but by sunset the land already looked different depending on where I stood. There were little holes in the earth I couldn't explain. So I didn't. I photographed them. An old tree stood nearby with part of itself open to the evening light. Cracks ran through the exposed wood. Tiny holes interrupted the rings. Above them, the canopy was still green. Not everything carrying damage is finished. Not everything green is thriving. Not everything bare is dead. And not everything we don't understand needs a name immediately. The question wasn't whether water had fallen. I knew that. The question was: Where did it go? This is simply the land on September seventh. After the rain. —HTR