Last night, I had a wild dream in which a huge flock of small, dark birds was swirling against a dark blue sky.  One small section of the sky had some wisps of what I guess were meant to be cirrus clouds, and as the birds reached that part of the sky, even the clouds began to whirl and take wing along with the birds. I was mesmerized in the dream, and tried to photograph the phenomenon.

A few hours later, driving the beach road on the way to the gallery, I was startled to see a huge flock of small, dark birds flying and swirling over Jockey's Ridge. I pulled over to try to take some photographs, hoping to find out what these little birds are. I suspected I was seeing a migration in progress, but whose?

Closer focus revealed that the birds were Tree Swallows, who gather in flocks numbering in the tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands as they migrate south for the winter and back north in the spring. I had not seen such a large flock of birds since childhood in northern Virginia. While the sky held more clouds than my dream (and the clouds were stationary), I immediately connected my daylight experience to my dreamtime one. 

I turned around and drove into Jockey's Ridge State Park but by then the flock had moved out of my view. As always, I am so grateful for the opportunity to be witness, to be present, to give voice, to give honor, to give thanks. 

The Rainbow Path

In January of 2013, I signed up for a regular emailed newsletter/blog by photographer Kim Manley Ort. I'd found her work while googling the term "contemplative photography" and was inspired by both her artistry and her heart. This month I have treated myself to her four week online course on Simplicity in Photography. The above is one of the images I created in response to one of the course's assignment prompts.

I'd gone to the ocean near the close of day, drawn by beautiful clouds and a rushing sea. And I made the photographs I typically make in these conditions: wide-angled to give honor and voice to the entire landscape. But Kim's prompt invited me to look closer, and give space to space, in this case the reflection of the clouds shimmering in the wave wash. Here, they took on abstract rainbow colors even as the sky dazzled above them. Instead of being merely one small part of a larger, more detailed landscape--at best a supporting cast to sea and sky--the reflections became the subject. I call the image "The Rainbow Path." It reminds me that I do well to reflect on where I place my feet (and my attention) so I don't diminish the very elements that make my life the most beautiful.

For more on Kim's work, or to sign up for her emails, see  http://www.365daysofinspiration.com/blog/

Ah (choo!), Autumn...

I'm writing this blog as a sort of apology to Seaside Goldenrod.  I love it. I love how it cloaks the dunes in bright, vibrant yellow just after autumn's official beginning, just as the sea oat stalks are beginning to turn a darker brown.  Yet I am aware how many folks suffer with seasonal allergies, and I--in my ignorance--have laid some blame at this plant's feet, er, roots. Well, not roots. The culprit is in those pollen-laden bright yellow blossoms. The very blossom that makes Seaside Goldenrod so attractive to my photographer's eye and heart is the exact same one that brings sneezes and sniffles to others, my husband included. I almost hate to admit that I love it.  They don't call it "ragweed" for nothing, right?

Actually, those in the know (and in a minute that will also include you) don't call it ragweed at all. Turns out Seaside Goldenrod and "ragweed" appear similar, and are both members of the aster family, but are at best distant cousins. Ragweed is prolific, putting out (hold your nose here) as many as a billion grains of pollen per plant! Light, easy-to-transport on the wind, ragweed's pollen is responsible for up to half of all cases of hay fever each year. Not so with Seaside Goldenrod. Its pollen is much heavier, and stickier, depending on insects like bees and butterflies to pollinate it rather than seaside breezes.

So go ahead! Take a deep, salty breath! Join me in celebrating this lovely herald of fall!

I love watching the moon rise as the sun sets. Often the setting sun's color will be picked up by the rising moon. Living near the ocean means--in theory--that one can view the moon rising above the horizon, not merely shining overhead when the sky is fully dark. I say "in theory" because any haze, or clouds, on the horizon will obscure the moon, especially while there is still some brightness in the sky. Every once in a while (read, once in several months or even years), all the conditions are ideal and I can photograph that event. Such was the evening of the full moon rising in October, 2010 over Hatteras Island, taken from the upper end of Ocracoke.  That image is below. Along with it is a bonus, this morning's moonset, or nearly so, shortly before sunrise, as the moon went into a total eclipse.

Here, full disclosure is in order. This composite image is just that. I have artificially placed the moon right below the one above it in order to illustrate the shadow's passage across the moon's face, NOT the accurate position of the moon as it slowly sank in the sky. I created the composite from several separate images created between 6:05 and 6:23 a.m. To repeat, the position of the moon relative to the one above it is arbitrary; the illustration is meant only to show the progress of the eclipse itself.

Two weekends ago I had the joy of introducing Ghost Crabs to a private workshop participant; she marveled, as I always do, at how quickly they scurry and scuttle and how apt their common name is. Even when I am on the lookout for them, they often reveal themselves only in motion, so well are their bodies camouflaged against our coarser grained sands.  This little crab did not let us get as close as the crab I encountered several years ago. Its gift came in less than a second of time, as it lowered its eye stalks to...I could only speculate. Obtain a better focus on the big creatures who were intensely interested in its movements? Communicate a back-off warning?  I called the second image, "Don't Even Think About It!" in an admittedly anthropomorphic interpretation of what would seem in a human expression to be a narrow-eyed squint.

Actually, Ghost Crabs lower and retract their eyestalks into groves on the front of their shells in order to protect them. Less than a second later, the stalks were upright again. Ghost Crabs have 360 degrees of full peripheral vision so perhaps it was trying to get a better look at us.  I'm not sure my own eyes and brain would have registered the movement, fast as a human blink, had I not been looking through the lens. I often return knowing I have more to learn, another of photography's blessings.

September, 2014; Nikon D800; ISO 400, 1/200 sec, f/16, 300mm