Whiskey Island, during Prohibition, was a dropping-off point for bootleg from Canada. Those glory days well in the past, the Island, in its backwaters, now tends to collect floating debris. I took this shot over the weekend.
Some time ago, as part of a dialogue with Steve concerning waterfalls, I had reworked an image of a shallow stream stepping over a flat and rocky bed. In touching up the visual I had entered a mild state of flow in which I was aware of my surroundings, but so deeply engrossed in an emerging pattern of alterations that it seemed I was mapping my own mental landscape. Here again I encountered something similar. Time seemed to go away and I lifted my eyes from the screen to find it well past my bedtime. It was a lovely floating experience.
Do you lose track of time when engrossed in your work?