A Photographer's Journal

It is suddenly summer here in Florida. Mornings have turned sultry. There’s a warm heaviness to the air, threaded with the mild scent of jasmine, and even before dawn one can feel the low rumble of thunderstorms building far out in the Gulf. By noon, the searing heat is unbearable.  A loud chorus of crickets sings its tribute to the season – a throbbing one-note chant. By late afternoon, all that energy has been captured in onshore thunderheads and is released in a torrent of

I know very little about Native Americans, and less about the Timucua, who were among the early inhabitants of Florida.  But what a magical existence they must have enjoyed here on this unusual river.  Their story is the familiar tragedy; the population was decimated by the mid-1700s and the last few individuals deported to Cuba. Often when I gaze out at the river, with no other witnesses save the occasional curious otter, I am reminded of those first and rightful owners.  I