Smoke for Smoke, Sir, My Extinguished Lava Cone Is Better Than Yours

The tour minibus drove up and down and around the northern fjords of Iceland, somewhere west of the fishing village of Akureyri, beyond lunar landscapes and into these pleasing patterned landscapes that felt like models for black and white images, but I bleached them cool and let them be.  We looked at blacked volcano cinder cones on the horizon, but this little field was littered with sleepy sheep, and the snow came down twirling on the random gusts and stuck to our faces.  An Iceland moment? Maybe. It could’ve been anywhere that snows, I s’spose, but I cherished it anyway.

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