The ducks are of two minds. I’m a bother, but I am something to yell at. Some jump to the ice. At dusk, the ducks might as well be ice. Winter pastels fade into brilliant blues and reds that spread from the horizon across the pond, the field, the day. “Those ducks . . ….
Backroads of Indiana through New Albany to I-64 through Louisville and on at dusk toward home, the sunset burning on the limestone and gray-green brush—as passenger, I can follow the light anywhere, would follow it . . . westward, somewhere, up into the trees. The road pulls on nights like this, and I let it…
G Bebs / Photographs 