At My Window
I woke later than usual, and saw a tall band of bright orange-gold along the southern horizon. I went away to wash the pixie dust out of my eyes. When I came back to the window, the tall band had shrunk to the narrow, gold strip you see in the photos. I knew better; these dawn scenes are always short-lived; I should have stayed.
The ones I did catch are still interesting for the subtle, luminous colors in the sky. After some time passed, I went back and recorded the interplay of the sun and clouds in the early morning sky.
When I first looked out the window, I saw a pale, washed-out scene. So, I took a little liberty. I cut down the amount of light entering the camera. That increased the contrast between the bright and dark areas of the scene, and made the colors more intense. In effect, I added some drama.
“Isn’t that cheating?” some may ask. Only if wearing glasses to read a book is cheating. I simply made more visible what was already there. As I’ve written before, I’m not a documentarian; I merely try to capture the beauty around me, as I see it.
If you have any thoughts or questions about these photos, please feel free to post them in the Comments box. The photos were taken on January 30, 2012.
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My neighbors, Becca Kaufmann and Robert Hendrick, saw two Bald Eagles cavorting over Hardy Pond today, January 29th, at about 12:45 pm. Robert took photos of the great birds, and kindly shared them with us. Click on the one, above, to see his entire series. Photo by Robert Hendrick.
Did you also see the eagles? Please feel free to describe what you saw in the Comment box.
Crocus shoots come up at the same time every year, give or take a few days, and their exquisite flowers open with the same predictability, year after year. The cycles of nature evoke awe and reverence in us today, as surely they did in countless generations before us. It’s all the more disturbing then, when that rhythm appears to falter.
Shown here are two views of our pond-side garden, recorded three years apart, almost to the day. The 2012 photo was captured after a modest first snow, the 2009 picture after two big snowstorms had dropped several feet of white stuff. (The little bird bath is there, buried, a shallow mound of snow marking the spot.) The dates were January 21st and 18th, respectively — tantalizingly close, yet three years apart. Is that mere coincidence, or the rhythms of nature again at work?
Two trees appearing at the water’s edge in 2009 are now gone. The large one on the left, a Box Elder, grew topsy-turvy for years until it outgrew its roots, and blew over during Tropical Storm Irene. The small one was failing, so had to be removed. The Red-twigged Dogwood in the middle, a fast-growing bush, has doubled in size over three years, and would be bigger still had it not been heavily trimmed.
The stems with little balls atop are what’s left of summer’s Coneflowers. I purposely leave them standing in the fall. Each winter they make a distinctly new and beautiful display against the snow.
Both images were captured in color, and so reproduced here, but they could easily be mistaken for old, black-and-white photos. The 2012 scene was shot at 10:55 am, the 2009 version at 4:22 pm.
Each of these views of our Winter Garden has its own appeal. One is delicate, conveying a sense of repose; the other is assertive, engaging us with strong contrasts. Do you have a preference? If so, please feel free to share your thoughts in the Comment box.
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It flew in from the north swiftly, through the trees, pitching and rolling ever so slightly as if feeling its way through the tangle, alighting finally atop an old willow, high above my head.
It was 7:00 in the morning, and the outdoor thermometer read 18°F. I was hauling out the trash, a chore I usually do the night before, but with Monday a holiday, I had got my days mixed up.
The sun had not yet topped the hill on the eastern side of the pond, and the predawn light was gray. Yet, peering up, I could clearly make out the white head and neck, the latter extended, no doubt for a clear view of the opposite shore.
My presence did not seem to be an issue. After several minutes of looking about, the great bird took off in a cloud of falling twigs, heading east across the pond. For a heavy bird flying in cold, lifeless air, this was labored flight, not the graceful soaring on high-altitude thermals for which it is famous.
Could I have muffed the identification? The light was poor and the bird high up in the tree. I confess, I didn’t get a good look at the wing shape or underwing color because it was flying low. Nor did I see the fluffy neck feathers as the neck was extended. What else could it have been, though, but an adult Bald Eagle, a bird of great size, with white head and neck, and gray-brown plumage? A friend tells me that she saw a Bald Eagle over the pond a few years ago, so there’s a precedent. If only I had taken my camera outside with me…if only. Still, I have the memory: I’ll never forget the thrill of that sudden, unexpected recognition.
Do you have an interesting wildlife story? Please feel free to share it in the Comment box.
Low clouds filtered the bright, December moonlight, spreading it over the water faintly, imparting a surreal quality to the scene.
It was late and I didn’t want to fuss with the tripod, so I braced the camera against the open window’s frame for what I knew would be a long exposure. Gratifyingly, the camera held steady.
Usually, the camera’s sensor won’t tolerate a long exposure of a moon against a dark sky. It produces a halo around the moon. In this case the clouds had already formed a halo, so the sensor acquiesced.
This photo is best viewed in dim light. The subtle points and strokes of light abstract a rental community sited on a hill across the pond. Photo shot December 12, 2011 at 7:04 pm.
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You don’t read much about them. They don’t make the headlines. They don’t run for public office, or get caught in financial scandals. Perhaps we humans take them for granted because they’re so familiar. Of course, I’m talking about the Mallard duck, a true cosmopolitan, spectacularly successful in sharing habitats with human beings around the world. It can be found in diverse watery spots, from urban parks to tundra ponds.
The Mallard is the largest of the dabbling ducks. Dabblers don’t dive for food; they up-end in shallow water to reach organic stuff on the bottom, as the photos show.
They’re normally placid creatures, yet after dark when they gather on the pond in a great, round, dense formation, there can be quacking aplenty, and it can go on for hours. What causes the discord? Males competing for females? Or for a place in the pecking order? Or is this a “town meeting” for the airing of grievances?
The male is handsomely turned out in formal plumage during mating season (Oct-May), ready for dining at the most upscale suburban park. The female, of course, stays discretely dressed for sitting unnoticed on her nest.
Mallards winter over in the lower forty-eight, then fly north in the spring to breed in a few northern states and much of Canada. They pair during mating season only; the female raises the ducklings alone. Like most ducks, Mallards are highly social in the nonbreeding season.
According to my bird book, ducks in the wild live only a few years, but among the oldest ducks on record was a Mallard that reached the grand old age of twenty-six.
If you have any ducky thoughts you’d like to share, please feel free to post them in the Comments box. For more reading, go to: Wikpedia » Mallard.
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