Out here, more than any other place I’ve watched sunrises this year, I am frustrated by the limitations of my camera. It cannot fit enough sky into its frame. The colors insufficiently match the subtle transformations from pink to fuschia to silver white and salmony orange. Colors dance across both sea and sky, and the camera cannot capture the dance.
Also – for you photographers out there, here’s a question. My digital Canon Powershot SD1400 seems to filter out reds. Many a gorgeous, intense red pre-dawn sky is muted down to washed out banality. And some of the deep reds of full sunrise are replaced by a gaudier orange than the reality. Any hints?
(view from inside my living room - 5:10am)
(nonetheless, I am overwhelmed with excitement about the beauty of the photos that I DO have, and I apologize for inundating readers with the endless gallery showings on these island mornings. I can’t help myself!)
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The stillness of the sea last night was uncanny. It looked like a glassy lake on which you might want to go water-skiing. This morning was still very quiet, with a hint of texture.
Seabirds continue to give me a small thrill almost every time they pass, which keeps me thrilling through much of the day. Cormorants remind me of Olympian athletes, particularly when they pump their powerful wings in a pair, in unison, soaring just inches off the surface of the water. They could be a pair of racing skaters, or a pairs rowing team in full sprint.
Gulls simply glide and soar and swim through the air. They truly make the air look like a different element – their own element without question – in which they may sweep past me in their aquatic ballets with effortless grace.
Today I saw an unexpected avian guest. A great blue heron (I think) came in for a landing on the rocks not far from me, casting a picturesque silhouette against the water. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one here on the ocean. Later he lifted himself into the air and lowered his great, ungainly body with nobility into a treetop. It was very weird to see, since I saw two herons land in a treetop in the Adirondacks only a week ago, having never seen such a thing before. (I’ve seen herons up there, but only on the water and flying away)
Sometimes things feel like a sign – certainly a sign from above, in this case, though where signs come from generally is a mystery to me. What do I make of these two unusual and parallel heron encounters so close together? Something good, that’s all I know.
Awe-inspiring. Filter, schmilter. My guess is that before you began this year's project, you anticipated getting up for dawn very seldom after the year was completed. I similarly guess that after the year is completed, while you will not get up for dawn every day, you will do it more often than you had originally planned.
ReplyDeleteYour first guess is accurate, and your second is highly likely.
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