The crew was out in Cataumet yesterday and I found them for the first time this year. They were clearing brush to open up a path to a sensor on a pumping station; my friend Henry, the foreman, was there, cheerful as usual fixing something -- a chain saw that did not want to start. "Maybe we start today, I don't know, depends whether it dries out". The chain saw would not start and got tossed into a brush heap -- perhaps ceremoniously, perhaps permanently.
I think I already have enough pictures of the harvest, but really, I do not. How could there be enough? Just as each sunset is different, so each moment of work is different, and this is about the work, not about the bright colors, although they surely glorify the work.
There is a deep story here. I tried to put some of it in my pictures last year, but they remain a promise, and a prisoner of expectations. More images will help me to go deeper, but perhaps the only way in is by writing. I have two writers in mind, but there is a third one too -- me.
If I write this story, this will be it.
henry
