Paul du Moulin

  A twisty spirit surrounds the Larapinta. It rises at dawn and crawls across the pinking spinifex. Spotty over shear and rounded faces. Stones underfoot  look like ancient artifacts dropped at a whim and stepped on a thousand years later.

Flies in the eyes.

Grave of an artist who is looking directly at Sonda.

Rain in the gorge,

too many rainbows... Paul du Moulin