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winterlamaster winterlamaster

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Davis Bell  Commercial/Editorial/Reportage(🎬📷🎥)Let me tell you a story. Currently: pre production.


At the estuary watching the calm tides shift inside the bay. The steely waters placid under the mist. Night Marchers sleep in the crags between the razorback cliffs, waiting for the new moon to make the walk to sacred places. Each lava rock tail from the mountain leading to the sea an indication of ancient land trusts. At this turning point in the coast a newer journey begins for the traveler as true North. Verdant valleys hide hardships, and forbidden waterfalls hide the dead. There is an altar behind me. It’s sits under hala leaves. The path here is worn, a single track across the small clearing. The fish pond has been restored, but the old single wall cottage is long gone. The beach across this brackish meeting point seems so close. The thick tree line and empty sand imply serenity. But I know better. I’m a visitor, a trespasser, and I am being watched quietly. As the mist continues to cover the land I stand above the river mouth aware of the darkening shadows of the forest behind me.

Happy Birthday buddy. #ripjbrown

The November chill greeted me as I opened my door. Not vicious, but apparent. The road had been mine alone for some distance now. An old motel, a prohibition era gas station, the ruins from a better time for this highway. This season is so forgiving. Shadows soften under the clouded daylight, the starkness of the land as it waits for the coming cold, steady silence blankets these far flung fields. A song played from the old cars radio. It’s softness barely gliding over the warm toned grasses as I stood and watched starlings sweep and gather in the cooling sky. “.... a clock on the wall, and it counts my time.”. I shift in my old army jacket, not from the cold, but from memories I’d much rather have hibernate. A calling crow, the setting sun, a long road. I settle into the seat again, turn the key, and the moment is over. The snap of old gravel under the tires as I face the road, paying my penance among the ruins of the past mile by mile.

Today I miss my home.

South Shore mornings never get old.

Wow! So many people responded to the poll in the Insta-story yesterday! As requested, here is a travel shot for you. Thanks for playing!

Moody sky season!


The clouds were the only hint at the rain coming from the North. These lone tracks split off the paved highway as we left the mesa and slanted horizons of plains country and steadily climbed into Flagstaff. The dust on the horizon laying like a veil over far away mountains and artifacts of geological upheaval. Summer was officially gone. The only warmth now was from the colors of the earth out here. Certainly this would be covered in snow, but for now I pictured the wild horse, the dark night, and the infinity at the end of the trail as the sun began to fall.

Near Red Mesa , sweeping plains and desert sage in the Navajo Nation.

One of the few homes not on the wide open hills in Navajo Nation.

Shiprock as viewed from a dirt road in Navajo Nation.

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