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The sky sings above those who sleep. The wind carries stories no longer spoken aloud. In this northern hush, every tilted cross is a line in a poem written by ancestors — not to be read, but to be felt. Nothing here is gone. Everything waits beneath snow, beneath stars, beneath the turning light.

Light for the Sleeping

Weathered crosses rise from snowdrifts like prayers etched into wind, quietly watching the horizon. This is not just a place of rest — it is a place of return.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Ice and sky. A world without end. But the whispers on the wind, they tell a different story. A story of change, of melting, of a shifting world beneath our feet. This isn't just a view; it's our heritage, our future, stretched out before us, waiting to be understood.

Whispers on the Ice

The ice stretches out forever, meeting the sky in a blur of white and blue.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Sky and snow, meeting our homes. A soft light touches everything. Familiar shapes, but a different feel in the air. The edge of our community, where the wild meets our lives. We watch, we remember, we see the subtle shifts in the world around our doors. This is our place, changing with the light.

Where the Snow Meets Our Homes

This is where we live. Our homes, nestled in the snow.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Sun on a Frozen Land

Sun and ice. We stand here, on the edge of forever. Where does the light lead us?

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Snow and street. Our path, right here in town. Where does it lead? What will it look like tomorrow? The light on the snow, it tells a story. A story of change, even here, where we live. This isn't just a street; it's our future, covered in white, waiting to be seen.

My Arctic Street

This road, it’s our everyday path. We walk it, we drive it. It connects us.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Tread Marks on Thinning Ice

Rubber and frost meet, right here. Where have we been? Where are we going? That horizon…

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

A metal drum, dusted and fading, frames the edge of land and light. The sun breaks clean across an ice-locked horizon, distant yet grounding. Industrial memory sits in the foreground, silent but loaded. This is the balance: between use and loss, sky and surface, heat and cold, stillness and what is coming next.

Barrel Horizon

Oil heats our homes, but it also represents a cycle that’s melting the ground beneath us.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025

Ice rises like fingers sculpted in a moment of thaw—sharp, delicate, reaching toward the low sun. In this blur of focus, what is foreground and what is memory? A crystallized tension sits between presence and erosion, the dirt and grains trapped inside as witness. Nothing here is still, though everything looks like it might be.

Tony Eetak May 1, 2025