There are many types of spaces. Busy ones, empty ones, calm ones, tense ones; vast spaces, small spaces. But never boring spaces. Every space has a story. How it was built, what it is used for, the story of the people who use it, the future of the space, why it is; some stories are simple, those of nature, or of still life. Some have meaning, some superficial, unimportant, of the moment.

Sitting on a rock on top of a mountain, overlooking a valley; the sun beating down on you yet the air is cool and light; the fresh smell of pine needles, rock, clean air. A lone bird, circling, waiting, observing, hovering, barely moving, just like you. The height, the sheer awe from being higher than anything else, anyone else, yet realizing people have been higher, that this world came from something, someone for which this is an ordinary view. Reminicing of the tales of old, the city on the hill, the cabin in the mountains, dissolving one’s self into the wilderness. But that bird, it keeps circling, circling, circling, waiting, observing, knowing it must return to the ground to feed, to sustain, to survive. One cannot live always in the clouds.