Pinwheel Camp!
A crew of campers at Black Rock City, most always found on the northernmost outer ring of camp. A garden of hundreds of pinwheels blooms on the playa, mylar twinkling in the pure sun. The breeze adds a swish swish ambience, a watery sound in the big dryness. Neighbors pick the pinwheels, leave trinkets behind. Pathways meander between the whirling petals, through and about. The pinwheels turn on their plastic spikes in the alkali cracked playa, trimming themselves to the wind. Spirals, paths, evolutions over a lifetimes of days and nights. I've been working on an idea for propane powered pinwheels. Join me?