Storm Triptych

Weather has the last word. Cloud gathers and disperses over dark hills, rain falls in ruled columns somewhere far off, and none of it acknowledges that anyone was ever here to watch.

Three panels hold one continuous sky, divided yet uninterrupted, which is how weather actually behaves. It does not begin or conclude. It passes through, and whatever it passes over is briefly altered and then left alone again.

A pale line winds through the low ground, patient as water always is. Everything above it is temporary. Everything below it will outlast the storm by a margin too large to be felt as consolation or as threat.

Its atmosphere carries real distance, drawing the eye far past the wall it hangs on and giving a space the expansiveness of standing outdoors at dusk.