Both prints available here.

It's waking up in a mostly white room, with the sun already clear of the horizon but the air crisp in a house that never really gets cold. 
It's the incessant chime of a bird that only lives in this valley. 
It's silence except for a distant highway... or ocean... or something non-descript. It's the fact that on still nights you can hear the train whistle hundreds of kilometres away.
It's a shelf full of treasures -- of fox skulls and leatherwork and urchin shells and snake skins. 
It's the slide of gravel, the rasp of grass, the silk of sand, beneath feet that know them well. 
It's sunrises you watch over already-industrious hands, it's fresh white fish baking in the evening.
It's the simple human dignity of being able to stare out at a vacant plot and put your hands on the earth, directly. 
Of understanding that you're just like everything else in the chain, and no Mercedes, no Louis Vuitton, no house in Toorak, can ever put adequate distance between you and it.

And, after all of this, it might just be quaint and idealistic and all-very-nice-but, but it beats life in the city all to hell.

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