In summer, the Vineyard of those who live and work here year-round is barely visible to the untrained eye.
Like Walden was for Thoreau, Chelsea was my experiment in living simply.
If I make claim to anything, it’s to being both a poet and a photographer of place.
Oh, if only they could have seen my tamed-untamed grandchildren at Runaway Bay...
How many insults must a wingless mortal absorb while some assault bird keeps attack-tack-tackin’ windows around his house?
