Fabric of our country, woven by calloused hands, keep us ever clothed in your multicolor thread.

Cages are no place for a child to grow up.

Flat sound of water slapping the steel hulls as ghost ships idly wait for past captains to sail them home.

He is a boy, should be kicking a soccer ball in Sudanese dirt, not suffering from a preventable disease.

Tires spin the Djibouti dirt as they speed from the Khat distribution center on the way to satiate the need.

Recycling is a smart thing to do. It can make you rich.

How sensual and playful the light as it kisses the lips delicately. It gives shape to shadows.

Barn behind the house, revealed from the lifting fog, is like an invitation to explore.