"I remember a moment in this little
house, seen here through the shrubs
that have grown up in the thirty years
since the afternoon that glows in
my mind, with a breeze blowing the
curtains in through that upstairs
window, the warm sunlight of an
early summer afternoon, lighting up
green fields, green trees, green weeds,
floating dust sparkles in the air,
soft grey driftwood textures on unpainted
wooden window frames, the smell of
warm earth, and Grubber the hermit,
(it was his place) listening to me tell
him (who surely saw this himself)
just how beautiful it all was. A couple
weeks later we heard a sound like
the sonic boom the B-58 bombers,
and soon word came that Grubber had
been killed while using dynamite to
clear stumps from this field."


photo © 1987 the archive of light