March Fog

I meet Mainstreet on Orchard Lake. He likes my Blue Note Diz lid. Mainstreet says there’s something wrong, they put something into the fog. I don’t know. There was a lot of snow. It’s been too warm. But something’s definitely wrong, so I don’t challenge his metaphors. They’re as good as mine in this mist. 

I’m back outside the demolition’s remains, nearly sanitized, six months later, when the county cop rolls down his cruiser’s glass. I explain a 4x5 holder and he tells me about his father. When he looks at my site, he asks if I sell prints. Not really, I say, I just make things. His tail reds disappear and I climb back onto the black bank, my tripod’s feet planted in melting ice, measure, set, dark slide, shoot. I wonder if the workers called the deputy. Or curiosity. Maybe he just wanted to talk about his dad. People get sad during war. If I see him again, I’ll give him this print. 

March 2026