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Brinson Leigh Kresge

shoots with morgan.

relent shoot.	laundry shoot
garage shoot	subway shoot.
fleeting show	fleeting shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
relent shoot	relent shoot
in the fishbowl shoot morgan won a photography award for this photo.	fleeting show
fleeting show	fleeting show
laundry shoot	laundry shoot
laundry shoot	laundry shoot
laundry shoot	laundry shoot
subway shoot	street shoot
in the fishbowl shoot	sparkler shoot
garage shoot

mix-medium explorations.

looking in from a distance.

(a story as seen through a keyhole and framed in poetry)

Distanced by blue, barely mountains,	a lone house sits on a lone hill, where quiet shuffles in stiffly, like starched arms walking through a day-before's motions.
It sits for tea, for time for tea; it sits (but without a creak in the chair).	It sits and waits for it's break, to be as a teacup breaks on wood, unexpected and hollow in its leaving of wholeness.
As quiet waits its turn to turn,	the evening sifts colors in the sky,
pushing slides, projected through a peeling wood window, then further sectioned frames; an open hole, blowing cream and curtain lace, (but soundlessly so),	and so, like so, seasons change and clouds change and winds change
and even change changes into something new that someone, somewhere, knew better than to expect.	The "expect" in the turning of hours, to be marked by a great grandfather clock,
…ticked by a grandfather clock,	tolled by all grandfather clocks.
The swing of brass behind glass, reflecting the chair, where, once quiet sat (in this room with windows)	and waited, as sound waits now, thick, in the tick tick tick of a moving hand.
If a young woman were to stand here, in a long, sloping, red-beaded, backless dress, perhaps a soft yellowing flower in her strong, burnt-brown hair;	if she were to turn from the clocks facing (where she studies her flower's framing),
she would eye a room spun in spurts, stuttering out a scene, but seen in continuum,	and she would perceive something's amiss. But, as she cannot see the song she learned as a child, learned in summer's full sway under the spark of fireflies between stars (the faint whisper of a creek creeping through mossy air)
like she cannot see that song,	having never seen it, she still knows it to be gone.
Or she would that is,	if this woman was in this house, on a dull, green hill bullied by barely mountains.
In this room,	with a grandfather clock and a wood chair on a wood floor,
framed by windows framing fleeing skies.	In her lack, a man takes the floor, he strides quarter boards with the tick tick tick,
of a clicking heel, of his steel-toed boots.	He is an old man (give him your father's name if that would make you uncomfortable enough to care),
he who has been here before.	As he sits, the chair creaks to meet his mass.
His sips cooled tea steeped in seawater,	until sips end give spin to a shadowed play,
a swirl, as if wind in a porcelain sky,	grains to ground,
a mound with swollen leaves as trees.	This man, (the name you know), he knows this place, placed within his cup, left by the wisdom of his own lips.
He stands, stills the clock, studies the mountain's breathless rise and sink.	(In the crux of the cup, a figure slips by).

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