Pacific mists roll over Vancouver Island's arched backbone, combing through forests of fir, and broken only by the exposed skeletons of the dead and dying.
Trees break surface above Pennsylvania's colonial terraces.
Silhouetted birds punctuate Santa Fe's adobe architecture with the same regularity as its characteristic beams.
The only sign of life in this vast landscape outside Calgary, a hare's paw prints recede to a distant horizon.
Anorak-clad tourists make their slow progress down a muddy path beside one of Iceland's most celebrated waterfalls. Icelandic infrastructure is groaning under the weight of international tourism, yet the visitors rarely make it into the frame.
Oxford's oldest tower - that of St Peter's in the East - stands proud under a banner of stars.
Earth, light and life entangle in this abstract vignette from Santa Fe.
Carriages await their signal under grubby vaulting and theatrical light.
Hafdís and her dogs show me round their farmstead in Iceland's craggy and bleak Westfjords.
At the foot of Haleakalā, a volcanic giant protruding from the Hawaiian archipelago, a modest fence marks field boundaries.
After a steep ascent, a group of snowshoers stop for tea and the company of grey jays.
Taos Pueblo, northern New Mexico. A makeshift roof provides shelter from heat of the high desert.
The highlands of Iceland have long represented a liminal and weird hinterland in the country's interior. Here the very basis of nature seems to warp and abstract itself.
A desert storm brews over Cerro Pedernal in northern New Mexico. Laden with local mythic significance, and endless artistic representations, the mesa wears a thousand of its own faces in a single day.
One cannot help but wonder, is the forklift just for show?