Crotalaria Spectabilis

A barbed wire fence runs the length of this section of roadway...the number of times I have walked with this road are countless, on one side lies the families pine grove, on the other an unplanted field. The fence seperating the two. The same fence that my great Uncle used to sit by, during dove shoots, his space was marked. Shells littered the ground around him. Doves in his bucket, gun in hand. The same fence that deer didn't always make it over- sometimes twisting themselves in the wire- my grandfather witnessed the event taking place a few years ago- the wire still hangs low in the section that the last buck did not clear. The same fence that had a random piece of wire wrapped round it- I photographed the wire and fence line...appreciating the simplicity of the image. The fence has snagged many a pairs of my pants in attempted crossings, the barbs have held many insects placed their by blue jays. At one time the fence was electrified, carrying a charge that curiosity would help you learn was strong enough to not tempt you twice. The fence that runs this section of road, a road my grandfather and myself used to travel in the evening, hoping to scare up a rabbit, maybe a deer. Shining it in those headlights, practicing my aim. I have walked this fence line with many a friend, many a family member. The trees along the road were planted around twenty years ago. They now cast a shadow that at the right time of the day can cover your path in gentle shade. Across the fence, grows Crotalaria Spectabilis- a name..a plant my grandfather introduced me to. A name my grandmother tells me long stories about. Crotalaria, as she calls it. I have photographed the plants in all of it's stages, from 'b to d' as my father says. I have created films with the Crotalaria in it. At my thesis exhibition it was Crotalaria Spectabilis that graced the table with the wine and cheese. And last sunday, as I walked that road, along side that fence, across from the Crotalaria, I heard something in the wind. As I stopped and listened...I realized it was the Crotalaria- the seed pods were bursting, the cases were rattling in the breeze, and a sound comparable to a babbling brook filled the air. The sound of one life ending and another preparing to begin. The bursting of a dried seed pod hanging on to a dead plant, the rattling of seeds as they are cast to the soil below. It was enough to stop you, long enough to listen to the change taking place. The circle unbroken.