Anthony Clifton

The world is such a magical place. Spider webs, curving like Einsteinian space time diagrams, shimmer in the breeze and sun. Crickets call to one another endlessly, hopping frantically through the fresh mowed grass. Somewhere a child cries out and then giggles, leaping one last time through a summer sprinkler. I watch and listen and smell, both observer and participant. I stretch out to the world with my imagination and pull it back into myself with my senses, a fisherman casting a net woven from feelings.