With the coiled energy of a stalking cat, Ray Stanford splashes outof the stream and onto a rocky sandbar, his knee-high, hunter-green boots leaving shallow heel prints that fill with water and begin to melt. Crouched, Stanford scans, head down, wavy silver hair dappled in the sunshine. Birds tweet. Water rustles. It?s 3:30 p.m.; the sun is at mid-angle, throwing good shadows. Stanford picks up a flat slice of pale yellow rock, a rough triangle the size of his hand. He rubs it with his thumb, tilts it this way and that.
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