There is color in his eyes, echoing there; jay-bird blue and stormy-water grey, deep mossy silver and yellow like autumn leaves, sometimes brilliant green and curly white. He sees nature as a blueprint for life, and bones as the written history of what used to be. Brown laces the lines of his palms and fingertips, mud edges his boots, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up past the elbows. Sometimes there is ink on his face and a pen behind his ear. There is always a notebook in his hand, an extension of his arm. A leather-bound notebook filled with scribbles and sketches, bits of leaves and insect wings taped inside.
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