a barren tree stands in a field of dried grasses with a soft pastel sky above
branches and dried leaves weave over fresh snow
a cold river moves through snow covered banks at the end of day in Wisconsin
snow blowing into drifts in a field of dried grasses
a field of dried and brown grasses, with seeds still attached on a gray day
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What marks time? How do we understand time’s passage? How can we imagine these markings have changed, with technology, with social and cultural changes, with shifts in religions and industries and families and lives. Can the humblest of materials, compost, be another way to understand ourselves in this world? Watching the beginning stages of both a material breaking down and also being born? From compost comes great possibilities and a nurturing that belies it’s sometimes unpleasant reputation.