| Sunday, September 25, 2022 | | Seasons Change... | I think my gallery staff, and probably many of my long-time customers, have many of my “elevator speeches” memorized by now. You know what I mean—those sentences that summarize who you are and why you do what you do in a short amount of time. Elevator-speak can be a challenge for me, since I love to share a backstory, and sometimes, just as in a wonderful book, the details really do make for best reading (or listening). As I posted recently on FB, synchronicity and serendipity are both handy shorthand terms for my whole photographic Practice, which is both a livelihood and a cornerstone of my spiritual life.
So this blog is full of serendipitous and synchronistic moments.
While driving around with a fellow photographer friend from VA, Tish Underwood, in Alligator River refuge in early August (yes, I am still galavanting over there as often as I can), we were startled when the mother Red Wolf emerged suddenly from the brush beside the road, trotted ahead of us a short distance, leapt the canal and then paused, walking back and forth and looking at us from the soybean fields. Thanks to my 600mm lens, I had a lifetime experience of meeting her eyes, giving my thanks, and rejoicing over the chance to photograph her. Seeing a Red Wolf has been a longtime wish, and you can bet she made my nightly gratitude list that evening! That same night, we saw what others believe is an orphaned young bear cub, that also crossed the road in front of us and paused to sniff the flowers before going into the bean fields to eat. A banner evening for sure. Three or four minutes earlier or later and we would have missed both of these. I’ve also had several more encounters with “Mister Bear” – my favorite big Papa Bear of this summer season – most of which included a dip in or a drink from the roadside canal.
I’ve been dazzled by our beautiful cloud shows for the past two months. Many of these have also included vibrant iridescence, or slices of rainbow without any discernible rain or moisture in the sky – as well as more traditionally timed and placed rainbows and sundogs. I receive these, as I do many other nature signs, as signs of a larger, beautiful reality just beyond my earthly sight, where so many I love have entered before me. My own belief is that what we call Heaven, that fuller awareness of God’s presence and love, without the limitations of space and time and an earthly bodily shell, sometimes manifests itself to our sight, or hearing, or even sense of smell, and in those moments, my own faith and hope and peace and joy and love—all the good stuff—is made larger. Even after the experience, often fleeting, is over, the increase of what Paul calls Fruits of the Spirit remain. And yes, I am so grateful for all of these. So you will see that kind of light show, all of which came either in answer to my heart’s longing, or my more specific asking and seeking. I have become even more “light sensitive” in these past months and weeks, meaning, paying even more attention as the light and clouds change. I have had the time to be more intentionally aware.
Lately, that awareness has led me to the dunes. This time of year is my favorite to wander around looking for seascapes. The dunes are their loveliest now, in my opinion, as the sea oat seedheads turn golden and bow in the breeze. I am always on the lookout for stands of sea oats where the beach access is an older sand path “up and over” – you can find that at Coquina Beach, for instance – as those remind me of my earlier years here before many of the wooden overwalks and stairs were built. You’ll see a couple images from my recent seaside wanderings too. For one of these, I stayed by the ocean all the way through sunset—the clouds had been magnificent—and the vibrant sky in the west over the dunes offered the prettiest show of the summer, I think.
Autumn came in like March, the ocean roaring with storm force winds, but the clouds blew out as quickly as they blew in, the rain squall ahead of the cold front was brief and by dusk on the first full day of fall (which officially began at 9:03 pm on Thursday, September 22, 2022, so Friday was the first 24-hour day of autumn), the winds were beginning to shift although the ocean was still running high and mighty.
Now we enter another season. Osprey and purple martins have flown south; ducks have begun to arrive on their wintering grounds; migrating warblers and the year’s last generation of monarchs and swallowtails pass through. The days are suddenly noticeably shorter now.
I hope you enjoy some of summer’s last offerings here on the Outer Banks.
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click for larger image | That same night, this small cub paused to sniff the roadside flowers before heading into the soybean fields. |
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click for larger image | This little family was way out in the field, and it was nearly dark! But I couldn't resist trying to make a picture. |
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click for larger image | The iridescence this summer has been more vibrant and abundant than I have ever seen it. |
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click for larger image | You couldn't go wrong on this particular evening! The views were spectacular east and west. |
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click for larger image | I call this, Prelude to Sunset. As I said in the blog, the clouds all summer long have been magnificent. |
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posted by eturek at 9:54 PM |
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| Monday, July 18, 2022 | | Galavanting: The Search for Joy | I’ve been sitting in front of my computer screen, thinking, how am I going to start…and continue…and end another blog? How many times can I acknowledge my grief journey without sounding redundant, without sparking sadness in others? How can I NOT write about it, since this is the road I am walking?
There is a Navajo prayer I have loved ever since I first heard of it. The word most often translated to English as “beauty” implies so much more than scenic loveliness; it speaks of peace, of joy, and of confidence. Its fuller version is used as a closing prayer in ceremonies of blessing.
In Beauty may I walk.
Beauty before me, beauty behind me.
Beauty below me, beauty above me.
In Beauty may I walk.
One of the translations I found closed with these thoughts:
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.
My words will be beautiful…
I realize I have had the intent of these words, if not their literal chanting, in my mind and heart these past days and weeks as I have gone, in Pete’s words, “out galavanting.” Galavanting was the word he used most often when I would announce I was headed over to Alligator River or down to Pea Island or up to Carova or any number of places in the region, seeking peace, seeking joy and yes, seeking beauty. Mostly I have been out wandering, seeking connection and consolation, looking for wildlife and trying to nurture a spiritual season of renewal in my own soul.
To that end, I have spent more time in Alligator River refuge in the past six weeks than I think I have in the past six years! I have been back over to the Pungo unit of the Pocosin refuge. I tramped around a sunflower field on a very warm morning, looking for butterflies and finding life lessons in how those flowers seek out the sunshine. I’ve dashed to the beach in the rain, in a mixture of hope and confidence that a rainbow would form, and was not disappointed.
I spotted at great distance my first ever Red Wolf in the wild. After about a dozen years of seeking the convergence of morning fog and a sunrise burning through, I experienced conditions that bird photographer Arthur Morris dubs “fire in the mist” – and asked, earnestly and eagerly, that a bear would please come out into the very spot I had seen one the evening before, which would be the perfect spot given the fiery fog…and bear came. With my heart on the ground in renewed sorrow at learning of the sudden passing of Ray Matthews, I went to Alligator River and had another life-list encounter with a bear soaking (and snoozing) in a canal. While I have seen bears crossing the canals quickly, this was only the second time (the first was in 2015) I have photographed one that seemed content to stay put in the water – in this case, for over an hour. I watched a mother and cub feast on the fruit of a wild black cherry tree, and a Ruby-throated Hummingbird and and Black Swallowtails feeding on a flowering mimosa. And I finally made an image I truly like of a Barred Owl in flight.
Closer to the house, I watched and hoped and rejoiced as “Caroline and Colin,” the Osprey pair at the Colington Creek Inn, successfully raised FOUR Osprey babies to fledging, a tremendous undertaking.
Every click of the shutter brought joy in the moment and renewed joy as I reviewed the images and relived the experiences back at home.
Meanwhile I must admit I have left some home chores undone for “later, ‘gator.” (You may recall my yawning alligator from my last post.) If I have learned anything walking this grief road, it is this: the chores will definitely wait for me. The light, the chance to be with wildlife, the chance to speak my love to those I care about…those chances may not come around again, or not in the same ways. So as much as I can, I am choosing, in the words of the Navajo prayer, to walk in beauty. And may my words be beautiful…
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click for larger image | Rainbow, sunset glow, and fog both north and south along with a huge tide pool made for a different view. |
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click for larger image | This is the mother Osprey, Caroline, with ALL FOUR babies, a few days before the first two fledged! Nest is crowded now! |
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click for larger image | A huge field of sunflowers gives all sorts of opportunities for visual play. I started looking for butterflies. |
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click for larger image | Now for the bears! Here is the bear that came out into those brief fiery fog conditions at the back of a field at Alligator River. |
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click for larger image | This is the mother bear in the black cherry tree. She had made for herself what looked like a bower of broken branches. |
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click for larger image | This cub was the more active, climbing high to get his (her?) own cherries. Look at those big claws! |
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click for larger image | Here is my soaking bear. He laid so still so long I finally asked if he would please move around and show me he was ok. Minutes later, he sat up. |
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posted by eturek at 2:17 PM |
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| Tuesday, June 7, 2022 | | Wendell Berry and The Peace of Wild Things | Wendell Berry and “The Peace of Wild Things”
I owe the theme of this blog as well as its title to my friend and fellow artist E.M. “Liz” Corsa. She posted Wendell Berry’s poem in its entirety on her FB page following the tragedy of another school shooting. I know the poem, but needed the reminder of its words to help me reorient my personal compass, one more time, to stubbornly put one foot in front of another in the direction of Peace. As she did, I am going to quote it here in its entirety.
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s
lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the
great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with
forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still
water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am
free.
- Wendell Berry
The multi-day storm right after Mother’s Day with its wind and rain and gloom challenged my optimism too, especially since I had planned a special treat for out of town friends who are fellow professional photographers—all of whom were visiting in mid-May specifically to photograph our wild horses at that time of year. That trip was impossible as the northern beach was nearly impassable. So now what??
“Now what” turned into a wonderful weekend of sights and sounds, of incredible hospitality for my friends from Dawn and Darold Shaffer of the Colington Creek Inn, and plenty of chances to photograph. We drove to Alligator River Friday evening in spritzing rain after everyone arrived, primarily to scope out what we planned for the next morning. The rain lessened, the sun broke through to give, first, incredible light and then a brilliant double rainbow over the rain-washed fields and trees. The next day, we even made a spontaneous excursion over to Lake Mattamuskeet! The weather there was iffy, the water was not still, but we still enjoyed our time outdoors together.
I have spent a lot of time in the region’s refuges these past weeks, seeking refuge, seeking solace, seeking beauty, seeking peace, seeking joy. As Wendell Berry, I have not been disappointed. My sightings and offerings may be different than his, but the end result of deliberately choosing to go outside always helps heal my heart-hurts. One morning recently, needing to go to Tarboro and rendezvous with two potters whose work I was bringing back to the gallery, I got up at 2:45 a.m. (yes, you read that right, no, that is not a typo) and drove with Beverly Meekins to Pantego, to the Pungo unit of the Pocosin refuge. We had a great excursion over there, I went on to Tarboro, and came back via the Alligator River refuge. Starting and ending my day outdoors definitely made up for the lack of sleep and filled my senses with sights and sounds and smells I don’t typically see seaside.
While I have not yet seen a Mama Bear with baby cubs, I have seen on several occasions a mother with two yearlings. The smaller of the two is definitely spookier and less confident than its sibling. Both stay fairly close to each other and certainly within range of their mother but I can see the growing confidence particularly of the larger one.
I have also seen, several times, a mother owl and baby owlets at Alligator River. I spotted two smaller alligators, doing their part to show why the refuge has its name. One obligingly yawned for me several times, often enough that I could discern its “tell” – it would pump its pale throat several times before oh-so-slowly opening its mouth. The parent owl, on the other hand, rarely gave a signal I picked up on before it exploded from its perch in a fast dive down to the canal to nab a crawfish and carry it back to the trees. Speaking of spotted, I also spotted a Spotted Turtle. These are not common; their status seems to be under review but has been listed as endangered. I saw what I assume was the same one twice, on two different days. One day it was crossing the road from south to north and the next time I saw it, it was headed back, in the same spot, north to south. Both times it stopped just shy of the safety of the grass and I thought, there is a life lesson for me in that too: keep going, don’t stop short; you are almost there.
As I mentioned, my photographer friends stayed at the Colington Creek Inn, where they (and I!) were spoiled with delectable breakfasts as well as chances to photograph the Inn’s feathered residents, Colin and Caroline Osprey. The pair put on a nice show which helped make up for the disappointment at not reaching the 4wd area of Carova. Caroline was incubating eggs, and Colin was attentive to bring her fish and take his turn in the nest to give her a break.
Their trip also coincided with a full moonrise over the ocean, and a couple hours later, the full lunar eclipse! We went to Bodie Light and I wound up making an image requiring three different exposures and clicks of the shutter: once for the moon; once for the starry sky we could see especially as the light was dark; and once when a car came by and obligingly lit the lighthouse itself for a few seconds. Had we been out there alone, we would have “light painted” the lighthouse with a flashlight, but there were several other photographers intent on photographing the eclipse too and we did not want to potentially affect their literal or creative vision and images.
After my friends left, I still did not feel comfortable taking my vehicle out on the beach, so I booked a horse tour with Corolla Outback tours and saw Cedar, daughter of Rambler and Orlanda. I was concerned to see only the mare and foal by the water when we first spotted them. Where was the stallion and the rest of the harem? By the time we came back down the beach, we saw the whole family reunited, by the water. In 2020, I photographed Rambler and Orlanda with their filly Alma; I was glad to see Rambler’s whole harem still looking healthy at the water’s edge.
The day I drove up to take the horse tour was Dragonfly Migration Day! There must have been hundreds of thousands coming ashore, as I drove through ongoing swarms from Kill Devil Hills all the way past Duck! I got to stand in a swarm briefly near Kitty Hawk Pier, and then had to continue north to make my tour, but this past Friday morning in Alligator River, there was a comparable swarm at the corner of Milltail and Sawyer Lake Roads. I suspect many of the dragonflies that came ashore earlier in the month kept flying inland and finally reached the refuge. I stood watching and marveling, listening to frogs and the trilling song of a prothonatory warbler whose bright yellow feathers reminded me once again that my keyword for 2022 is supposed to be Joy.
Saturday evening I made a quick dash around suppertime to TJs to pick up a dozen eggs and saw towering, glowing clouds. Dinner can wait! I went home, put the eggs in the fridge, and headed to the ocean to watch the clouds bronze and gild and eventually turn a deep pink above an ocean that went from navy blue to shimmering pale turquoise in the waning light.
I am giving myself the gift of flexibility these days, realizing, slowly, that I am able to respond spontaneously to these impulses, whether to drive to Alligator River at dawn or dusk, or walk a quiet evening beach, or book a horse tour if I cannot drive myself. Life presents choices. Whenever I can, I am choosing beauty. I am choosing peace. And slowly, in those choices, I am finding joy.
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click for larger image | When the sky turns this color in spritzing rain, always look for the rainbow. You can see it faintly beginning here. |
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click for larger image | One of the 'gators that gives the refuge its name. No, it is not being aggressive here; it is yawning! |
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click for larger image | As the sun set in the west, the eastern sky began to illuminate with the sunset's color reflected in the clouds. |
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posted by eturek at 1:02 PM |
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| Wednesday, May 4, 2022 | | What are the chances? | When I sat down to write my last blog in early March, winter still reigned on the Outer Banks. Temperatures that day were in the mid-low 40s; Osprey nests were still empty; Tundra Swan were just leaving for their summer breeding grounds in the Artic.
Now, native and cultivated gardens are awash in color; trees and bushes are well leafed out; and not only have Osprey returned, reunited and rebuilt winter-bedraggled nests, but some females are incubating eggs. We still have to wait a couple of months before our dunes are clad in sea oats, as those grasses don’t fully emerge until the end of June or early July. Today, my weather app informs me that the temperature is in the mid-70s, we have had repeated lines of rain squalls moving through all day, some with thunder-boomers, and that pattern is forecast to “rinse and repeat” for the next several days at least. I say rinse because all this blooming has released a dust-storm of yellow pollen, and most of us would welcome a rinse-off at this point.
I’m keeping my eyes on the skies; this exact weather pattern produced, back in 2019, the most vibrant double rainbow at suppertime that I have ever photographed here.
I have written this before: nature’s rhythms ground me. I find solace in the repeated patterns of migration and emergence – with just enough variety and surprise to, well, surprise me. I’m musing on rhythm since my life’s daily rhythm and pattern has changed so much since last fall. I’ve hunted for the familiar as a sort of emotional anchor while also seeking to understand what “fresh and new” might look like and feel like. All of this ruminating fills pages in my morning journal, but predictably, I carry it with me into the field along with my lenses. So while the subjects themselves may be similar to what I have photographed in past years at this time of year, hopefully my eyes and heart can find fresh ways to portray and honor these places and their wild inhabitants.
I’m still pining for foxes, so if any regular local readers have den sites nearby, I would love an invite to come photograph. In the meantime, I’ve walked out onto Jennette’s pier several times, and received a close dolphin encounter as a reward when dear friends were here from VA, and I drove with Ray Matthews in the dark for what turned out to be a lackluster sunrise at Mattamuskeet. I used to tell Pete all the time, I have 100% chance of no photograph if I don’t go! Instead of the sunrise we envisioned, we were treated to a density of wading birds on the refuge’s wildlife loop road that prompted thoughts of Florida. I even made close images of Glossy Ibis, a bird I have seen in the region only once or twice before in the past 20 years or so!
Earlier this week, low tide coincided with afternoon light, a SW breeze, and temperatures in the low 80’s, so I took my first run of the year up to Carova. Conditions were perfect for horses on the beach—one would think. But when I pulled onto the beach (and that was dicey at the entrance, as the sand there is quite soft and deeply rutted and I bounced my way forward with my tires aired down to about 18. VERY glad I did not get stuck!), the temperature was suddenly in the mid-60s, the breeze was cool, not warm as it had been a scant few miles south, and there were hazy, foggy patches ahead—and no horses in sight by the water. A small harem grazed the dunes and even those disappeared up and over fairly quickly. I saw more Royal Terns than Sanderlings but all bird life is a treat. Eventually I parked, remembering to pull out my permit for the week, and walked the beach, picking up a few pieces of coral, heart-shaped shell fragments, and two pieces of seaglass, one of which was from a pale green bottle neck. I climbed back in the truck and glanced north one more time and there off in the distance was a small harem by the water. I drove up and made a few images but conditions truly weren’t conducive for anything special there. I was just glad to see them out and looking healthy after the winter.
But spending the time I did to walk and forage for treasures, and then watch the horses, meant that I was passing through Duck near sunset. This particular sunset did not light up the whole sky, but there was a nice band of color parallel to the sun’s actual position. And that position just happened to be at the perfect height to photograph an Osprey nest that is near our gallery. Truly, I was in the right place at the right time—just not for the image I envisioned when I started out. I thought again of Pete, and how he would always ask, when I would call and check in after leaving the 4WD area, “Well, did you get anything?” And again I thought of my mantra: 100% chance of no photo if I don’t go.
Photography gives me life lessons. Twice recently, I made a substantial effort to go to what I thought should be the right place at the right time for a special image I had in mind. And in both cases, the conditions that I based my timing upon turned out to be different and much less ideal than I would have liked. In fact, had I discerned that in advance, I likely would not have gone at all. And you will see below the treasures I would have missed.
Life happens. We know this. My challenge now, which seems to be a similar challenge to many I talk to, is to put myself smack-dab in the middle of life as it is happening, so that something good, something wondrous, something joyous and peaceful and mystical and spiritual can happen not only around me and to me but within me as well.
After all, there is 100% chance of nothing, nothing fresh and new, if I don’t.
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click for larger image | "Grace and Henry" are among the first pairs of Osprey to arrive, always in mid-March, 25 years and counting. |
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click for larger image | Henry LOVES fabric. He always decorates the nest with something special--this year, colored rope. |
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click for larger image | This is Caroline, the female at the Colington Creek Inn nest. She is laying on eggs now too. |
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click for larger image | Seeing a Glossy Ibis this close in early morning light showed off the reason behind its name: beautiful iridescence. |
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click for larger image | Here the pair has changed places. DAD is incubating, and Mom seems to be giving him a little peck to say, thanks, honey. |
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click for larger image | Canada Geese fathers are also involved with raising the young. This is Father Goose, here. |
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click for larger image | Conditions were iffy so I chose my longest lens and cropped down to show these two being affectionate. |
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posted by eturek at 5:05 PM |
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| Wednesday, March 9, 2022 | | Sky's On Fire... | Hey, Babe, the sky’s on fire…(James Taylor)
I hope James Taylor doesn’t mind that I borrowed a lyric of his—with attribution of course—for this blog. You’ll see why in a bit.
You haven’t seen or heard or read anything much from me in the past several weeks because honestly, I thought I had nothing to say. Beginning my grief journey in the darkest, coldest part of our year here in the northern hemisphere has given me lots of time to sit by my fireplace and think, remember, journal, cry, talk with friends and family far away. I am so used, after 25 years, to think in first-person-plural terms; thinking “I/my” instead of “We/our” has been a challenge. In my morning journal time recently, I felt as if God said, Pete was a big guy; he took up a lot of space in your psyche as well as in your days. Of course you feel emptier! No amount of busywork or activity or sleep or conversation has filled that space. Instead, I was led to create a new kind of to-do list, based around five questions.
What nourishes you?
What sustains you?
What pours into you?
What enlarges you?
What inspires you?
Thinking about these five questions eventually led me to bundle up—more than once in the dark—and head outside where my head, and heart, are nourished most. Another resource I have found helpful is The Grief Recovery Handbook, by John W. James and Russell Friedman, suggested by a friend who led grief recovery groups pre-Covid. For any of you reading this and also navigating the path of great loss, I highly recommend it.
Much as I did when I drove out to the NC mountains for New Years, I wanted a little change of scenery. I got my first wish for that when about 7” of snow fell in late January in Corolla. I did not venture out at first light—I wanted to be sure the Colington bridges were safe to traverse—but there was still a lot of snow on the ground when I finally drove north. A long goal was to photograph my favorite tree along the Duck boardwalk in snow and I finally got my wish.
Then, I arranged to go over to the Pungo Unit of Pocosin Wildlife Refuge on the mainland with a fellow photographer, Dan Beauvais, who knows his way around the unmarked roads there. We left in the dark to make sunrise and I was delighted to photograph hundreds of tundra swan in early morning light in a small flooded area that looks like a little pond compared to the larger lake. Way off in the distance we saw lines of snow geese flying shortly after dawn but we stayed with the swan. I had seen others’ photographs of otters in the canals there and hoped for a chance to photograph them, and we eventually found and followed a group of four or five. So cute! So fast! The next afternoon, I told Ray Matthews that Pungo still had swan present, and we drove over together for sunset and moonrise. The sound of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of swan cooing and calling to one another as the light waxed and waned over the two days I was there definitely provided sensory experience to answer my new life-list questions and I came home with memories and memory cards full of new, fresh images to share.
I’ve gone over to Alligator River Refuge several times too, sometimes in afternoon, sometimes for sunrise. I seem to be having lots of raptor experiences this winter, and wound up with a wonderful chance to photograph a Bald Eagle taking flight on a gray afternoon. Last week I rode with Beverly Meekins, a wildlife photographer who has spent much more time in the refuge over the past few years than I have. Beverly and I got there in time for me to see my first bear of 2022, a big Papa Bear headed from the now-barren farm fields across a canal and into the woods shortly after dawn. We also saw a lone otter, plenty of turtles sunning on logs, and we watched the last group of tundra swan (all but one) fly off, headed back to breeding grounds in the Arctic. Once they left, I could more easily spot the Sandhill Crane that has been hanging out with that group all winter. I wonder when it, too, will take off, and why the one swan remained behind when all the others flew north.
I always have my eyes on the skies, which is less rewarding with a uniform grey blanket overhead. A couple of weeks ago conditions looked as if a sunset were possible but only if I were willing to drive north—so I drove up to the boardwalk at the Waterfront Shops, where our gallery is, and bore witness to a magnificent skyfire show at dusk. This past week, clear skies and almost no wind coincided with the new moon, so I once again set my alarm for what felt like the middle of the night – 3:30 a.m. in that case – and drove to Bodie Light for the rising of the Milky Way, which we begin to see now just above the horizon. In winter months it stays below the horizon and by summer the core will be almost straight up and down. There was enough humidity in the air to fan out rays of light from Bodie’s Fresnel lens, which I could see as my eyes adjusted to the dark, juxtaposed against the Milky Way core behind the lighthouse. A ten-second exposure revealed even more detail than my eyes could pick up and once more I was nourished, poured into, inspired, and yes, sustained.
The fourth question on my list, what enlarges you, prompts a complex answer, one facet of which this blog, and other avenues of sharing, help to answer. I feel nourished, poured into, inspired and sustained as I receive, whether from nature, from God, or from people on this planet I love. I feel enlarged as I share what I receive with others. It is always my hope and my prayer that these offerings provide you, in some measure at least, what I’ve been given, and perhaps help answer those same five questions for you. Here they are again, so you have them planted in your own heart, to seek your own answers:
What nourishes you?
What sustains you?
What pours into you?
What enlarges you?
What inspires you?
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click for larger image | I've pictured this tree with snow in my mind for years, but never had the chance for the picture! |
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click for larger image | The Swan were flying to a nearby field; after the sun set, groups began to fly back in the dark. |
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click for larger image | Then a beautiful full moon rose. This one line of Swan was at the perfect height from where I stood. What a gift. |
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click for larger image | Our offseason sunsets (and sunrises) are the most vibrant. This one shows the Blue Point dock in Duck. |
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click for larger image | Eagles represent vision, clarity, and thus direction for me. Having this one take off in my direction was a treat. |
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posted by eturek at 6:22 PM |
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