Some times I see the progress, sometime I see the traces of work left as images that will be swept up, hauled away and buried.

The forensics of shoe prints and tracks that trace a thousand passes of the wheelbarrow.

That wheelbarrow arranged at the end of the day.

The saving grace of a green tarp and a brace.

I wonder who carved this newel at the end of the cow stalls?

The last trace of green tenaciously holds on to a shutter.

Souvenir of spring floods. March 1930

The recycled bags return to the recycling center.

Under the cement floor a jigsaw puzzle of hourdis.