Things are found in secret places. These things are hidden below our shoes. In a man-made valley, up from the river, by an old museum, near an iron-clad gate, ‘cross from my old homestead, at the end of a path, on the top of an incline, close to where the road meets a bridge, on a sunny day, in a deserted village I was able to capture (really drink in that word “CAPTURE”) this hidden angel praying silently, alone.

And have your prayers already reached those Great ears in the sky? Have they brought us the sun that bursts forth tones of pink and subtle fragrances from our sophisticated, delicate flowers? Did you pray for petals to be fluffy, soft and snowy? Did you pray that the madness of those blooms would perfectly contrast the ridged conservatism of industry? Pray on, sweet angel.

They’re just some more pictures of flowers and some hydro towers thrown in.