Nearly every evening this summer, at dusk, I have had the privilege to emerge from my apartment at the base of the foothills in Boulder, Colorado, and I walk.

Like many, this year has been one of solitude and hyperlocal exploration. I've returned to the same three miles again and again. I've watched the grasses fade from greens of their youth to shades of gold, brown, magenta, yellow. I've watched cactus blossoms bloom and whole fields of wildflowers open in all their glory, just to wither in days. I've stayed out after the sun drops and watched the bats hunt and listened to coyotes yip after a kill. I've walked, I've witnessed, I've asked, I've listened.

There is a sort of documentation in these paintings and accompanying poems. I'd like to think if you looked at them all, it would be like reading a diary of how August of 2020 was for this one person at this very certain point in time.