But there were stolen moments and secrets: blood on the leaves and the snow, birds’ bodies beheaded every Christmas; tears hidden only for night, save the fear of weakness being discovered; the solace of winter, quiet frozen lakes, and how we shared the silence.
The Pocono chill will always be inside of me. We were boys in the mountains, boys on my back porch, boys living in a mystery. My camera met it all: fog & smoke & obscurity.