There is a window of time — a few minutes at dawn and again at dusk — when the light does something it cannot do at any other hour. It goes horizontal. It travels parallel to the earth rather than down through it, and in doing so it catches every edge, every surface, every strand of wheat and curl of fog and strand of spider silk in a way that the overhead sun never can. These images were made inside that window, across Oklahoma and the American West — at the edge of wheat fields and reservoir lakes, on railroad tracks and mountain summits, and on one October evening when the moon passed in front of the sun at the exact moment the sun touched the horizon.

The Oklahoma sky has always been the largest thing in the room. These photographs are about what happens when it decides to perform — when a storm cell turns gold at its edges, when a pump jack and a lone tree become a silhouette against pure red, when fog fills a mountain valley and the sun rises above it into a sky that has no business being that beautiful. Not every image was planned. The spider on its web was noticed. The eclipse was waited for. The willow reflection required still water and patience and being in the right place at the right moment — which is, finally, what all of this comes down to.

These prints are available on canvas, metal, and fine art paper. Each one is produced to order and ships directly to your door.