In the morning, walking around the fields in the country. With coffee. Nothing changes but our perception. Trees remain trees. In the morning, when fog seems to be just a lazy awakening of nature. Whispering light through the foggy trees as trapped in invisible webs. In the morning fog – around my house. With coffee. I remember my father’s house where I spent my childhood. That coffee foggy tree painted by a blind man who once saw the fog. Surrounded by coffee trees.
There, in the dinning room. Where I often had meals with the blind man’s coffee tree. In my own foggy silent mornings.
All images ©Gonzalo Bénard