A century after century after century, all in the width of a fingertip.
Field Notes
Most of history disappears.
Footsteps fade. Buildings collapse. Names are forgotten.
But sometimes time leaves a physical trace.
Not as dates or records, but as layers.
The earth is full of them. In stone. In ice. In sediment. In the bodies of ancient trees.
Each ring marks a year, yet standing before them, the years lose their meaning. They stop feeling like units to be counted and begin to feel like something else entirely—a texture. A pattern. A depth.
We spend our lives measuring time as if it were moving past us.
But here, time is not moving.
It is resting.
Stacked quietly upon itself.
Waiting to be seen.