THE PASSING

Decay, endings, what remains A farmstead built by hand, now folding back into the land. A dock giving way to salt and weather. Lodge ruins where the doorway still frames a view no one enters to see. These photographs don't mourn what's gone. They attend to what stays — the slow transfer from human purpose to something older. Wood remembers the shape it was given. Stone outlasts the hands that set it. What remains isn't ruin. It's evidence that something was here, and that time continued after it left.