Aurora

There are moments when the sky can’t decide what the hell it wants—bright and golden one minute, brooding and grey the next. Aurora was born in one of those moments: early fall, early morning, rod in hand, beside my son on Vancouver Island.

It was the kind of quiet where time feels like it’s running on a different clock. The sky above us was waging a full-blown war between warmth and weather, but the world below? Still. Perfect. Unbothered.

This piece is about that tension. That strange harmony where chaos and calm co-exist without needing to fight it out. Where the trees stay standing and the water doesn’t flinch—even when the heavens can’t make up their mind.

It’s a memory wrapped in brushstrokes. A still frame from a moving day. Peace, not because everything was perfect, but because we were exactly where we were supposed to be.