I love the sky, and trees, and in particular the interplay between them. I’ve written before about my continued – fruitless – efforts to capture the light on the trees outside my house in the morning and the evening. This futility reminds me of how I’ve often tried to photograph falling snow and been similarly frustrated by my inability to capture the fleeting, stunning glory of it. These are moments, I guess – nature swollen to its fullest meaning – for poets, or for photographers far more skilled than I.
And yet I keep trying. There’s something so rich, so evocative, about the way light right now plays on the ever-barer branches of trees. Particularly at sunrise and sunset, at the ends of each day’s arc, it seems the light comes from somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond the reach of my logical mind. It makes me stop and wonder, almost every single day: most mornings finds me standing in the street, pointing my iPhone up at the sky while the kids sit in the car, waiting to go to school.
The light is particularly elusive this time of year. Its hours are limited, its wings clipped by the dusk that falls earlier and earlier. There’s also a quality of elegy in November light, which is somehow heavy with endings. It is, paradoxically and bewitchingly, full of emptiness. We pivot towards the solstice, towards the close of another year. And the light glows like embers on the branches perhaps marking that another set of days burns irrevocably to an end.
And I stand there taking pictures. Trying, always failing, to capture what I see. Almost exactly one year ago I wrote about the light in the sky and the leaves on the ground, on the inextricability of endings and beginnings. About rawness, sadness, and the strands of incandescent joy that weave through every single day, through every single sky.
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