all good things are wild and free.
The Arboretum seemed a hopeless tangle of growth and buckweed and mosquitos and heat and midwest endlessness—wait, midwest endlessness. There was that one point in my afternoon run where I would hit the top of the hill, after panting and cursing my way up a crooked, stumbly path, and I would stop and stare and revel in the vastness of the fields and how strange they seemed to me, how simple and reminiscent of a world I did not know.
I was skeptical about shooting the Arb, but as you see in these photos what a beautiful thing it is. The light. The golden light. I had never seen literal “fields of gold”, that fabled, romanticized phrase of the midwest, but did they come alive, and were they ever golden. They shone. But beneath that-blues, dark blues, purples, silver. There was so much color. And the fields weren’t just fields—there were stalks too, individual plants, woven and shining, curliques, branches, stalks, colors, and the whole thing was a pattern and the whole thing spoke to me, telling me of a wealth which cannot be measured and is often overlooked.