Glass Marble and Dust Line

I spent several nights in a tent under a sky full of stars. It was too large for a photograph; the moment I took it in, it grew larger.

So I took out something small — a glass marble. Inside it, dust that belongs to no category turns and turns. I keep it. In time the marble grows, and the dust begins to arrange itself.

In the desert I placed things that came from nowhere: a gate with no wall, a train with no station, a bed, a table set for no one. Each was grafted onto the sand. Where a branch is grafted, the tree gets a second origin. These are origins, not ruins.

I do not photograph the sky. I photograph the dust, and the line it draws.