24x30x2
Acrylic
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In our valley, the spriral smoke is the glowing ribbon that ties us together. It rises from Old Man Miller’s hearth by the falls, arching in a perfect, white coil over every rooftop before dipping toward Clara’s blue-shuttered bakery.
To a stranger, the smoke is just a quirk of the mountain wind. To us, it’s a silent conversation. When cold weather stops our  porch sitting conversations, we only need to look up at that arc against the vibrant orange leaves. Seeing that bright tether tells Clara that Miller’s fire is warm; seeing it pulse near her chimney tells Miller that Clara is still stoking her ovens. All our neighbors are safe and going about their normal routines. 
On this hillside, we live in small, separate houses, but the spiral makes us one home. We aren't just neighbors living side-by-side; we are the points that hold the circle in place. As long as the smoke rises, we are never truly alone.