Tom Chase kneels on the grass, his beard rough against the red cloth pressed to his face as he stretches one arm forward, muscles straining under his tanned skin. The log and bench become his surfaces, leaning, sitting, lying, each pose sharp with deliberate tension, his dark hair and thick beard framing the, unfiltered act. The field stretches behind him, but the focus is on the way he holds himself, the cloth, the way his body bends to the weight of what he’s doing.
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