About the work

The squirrel in the background has found the perfect spot for its nut, under the frayed edge of the tarmac, near the roots of the new weeds. It's too hot to play on the blacktop now, but by evening, the surface will still radiate enough heat to keep the air above it shimmering. The children whisper behind the dumpster, their voices low and urgent, a new secret born of discarded plastic and chipped porcelain. Soon, the squirrel will leave, and the children will scatter, and the empty blacktop will remain. The question is what the squirrel knows that they don't, or vice-versa.