The first and the last, alpha and omega. Rain in between.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, the Universe gave to me:
Twelve geese and a mountain,
Eleven mushrooms sprouting,
Ten elk a-grazing,
Nine plums collected,
Eight birds a-roosting,
Seven Ruby Beach stones,
Six jars of jelly,
Five black-tailed deer,
Four swimming geese,
Three gold trees,
Two boys far away,
And a baby in u-oo-ter-o.
To view all twelve days again, go to the photography tab. Thank you for your kind attention to my year.
The sunrise doesn’t wait until you feed the cat, get a shower, take care of a bit of paperwork cluttering the coffee table. It doesn’t wait until it warms up enough to go outside in your bathrobe and bare feet to take a picture, or even until it’s light enough for a focused photograph. It just spreads its pinks then oranges through the minutes, and fades away.
I was early to yoga and the gold and crimson trees on the far side of Capitol Lake, their color muted by the dense fog that has enveloped our world every morning and evening for more than a week, called to me and my camera. I stood in the light mist—not rain so much as liquid air—trying to capture the duck family cutting a swath through the lake with the capitol building, the top of the rotunda disappeared in the fog, beyond, when a young man walked by behind me:
“Beautiful day,” he said. Indeed.