Photo Essay: February Morning

At dawn, the thin sliver of crescent waning moon hung low above the tree belt along Poplar Run. A low layer of fog hugged the ground. It was cold; heavy frost on everything. A cottontail rabbit was out in the open on the snow. I had gotten up early, working on my website. I wanted to keep working; I didn't want to interrupt it by being drawn outside by an alluring sunrise. But it became increasingly apparent that it could be a special one if the sun made that fog glow yellow and orange. Better get out there. You'll hate yourself if you miss it. Duty calls.

I bundled up, threw on my photo vest over my coat, and mounted the camera on the tripod and loaded a roll of film. No sense in doing it outside unless you have to.

I stepped out into the back yard. It was completely still, no breeze at all. The black sky had lightened in the east. I walked into the front meadow, hoping to get a shot of the crescent moon over my house. I wandered around on the crusty snow, but nothing appealed to me. I decided to take the camera off the tripod and put it inside my coat to keep the battery warm.

Walking slowly along the brushrow fence line, the crusty snow broke underneath my boots as I walked. Making a lot of noise, you are, I thought. My neighbor had run a snowmobile down the field a couple weeks ago, and the trail had melted through to frosty grasses. It made a convenient, quieter path that happened to be headed in the direction I wanted to go. So I took it.

I walked slowly down the line of trees and brush. It was light enough to see details, but not light enough to photograph yet. I wanted to get to the fence corner before the sun came up. The light waits for no one, and I wondered how long I had. I did not want to hurry, but I did not want to be out of position for the imagined shot, either.

Walking slowly past a big mulberry tree, I spotted a mourning dove sitting on a lower branch, not fifteen feet from me. I expected it to flush, but it held it's, um, branch. I stopped. I wondered if it had roosted there throughout the night, or had flown from its sleeping spot to this branch a few minutes ago. So I asked it. The dove said nothing. I wished it well and moved slowly on. The dove never moved, which gave me satisfaction that I was calm and relaxed enough to be gently slipping through the environs.

I reached the fence corner, stopping short along a section of brush and weeds that looked like it might be a nice foreground for the rising sun. The heavy frost coated everything. Every twig, every blade of dead tan grass. The crusty snow was hard enough to stand on if I didn't move around.

Finally the birds starting their dawn talking to each other. I concentrated on their calls, trying to use it to escape the daydream in my head. To connect with reality, with this moment, on a beautiful still frozen morning awaiting the sun.

The fog was thick in the distance. Looking straight up I could see light blue clear sky. The fog was delaying the appearance of the sun. It would have to get up above that fog bank before it would be visible. I waited. I watched. Any day now it will be up, I thought. Then I remembered that I was thinking again instead of being in the now. I concentrated on the bird talk again. Chickadees, cardinals, and some other birds I couldn't identify by their calls. There was traffic noise in the far distance. It's amazing how loud a set of rubber tires can sound rolling down a blacktop road at 50 or 60 miles per hour. In the far far distance was a dull roar. That must be the traffic on the Interstate, I thought. I realized how until then I had automatically tuned out the traffic noise. I didn't want it, I wanted only sounds of nature. But the traffic noise was there, it was real, and so I was wrong to discount it, to tune it out. Awareness means being aware of everything you can see, hear, feel, touch, taste, and smell. Not just the ones you want to be aware of.

I tried to listen to everything simultaneously: traffic, the birds, the traffic plus the birds. I tried to recognize how many birds were calling simultaneously, moment by moment. Without counting. Just by letting the awareness in. I wondered if I had finally slipped into (or near) that state of "moving meditation" that Tom Brown talked about. That thought made me realize again that I was thinking, not staying connected. Back to the birds, then. What a wonderful gimmick for being more connected. Thank you, birds.

Finally the top of the sun was becoming barely visible through the trees and the fog. The camera was still inside my coat. We've got lights, I thought. Let's get the camera out and have some action. Securely mounted on the tripod, I made my first shot of the appearing sun and the frosty weeds and fence in the foreground. I made several more in quick succession, as the sun was rising fast.

Which reminded me that I was no longer connected with the bird talk. Too distracted by making photographs.

I walked to the actual fence corner, to step across it where the barbed wire was pushed down for easy crossing. On the other side, I had a different scene: bare snow covered fields and the tree line along the creek. Just me, the broad plain of snowy field, the trees, the fog, and the rising sun. More shooting. Normal lens, short telephoto lens, wide angle lens. Each gives a different perspective on a single scene. Each exerts its own influence. Just keep shooting: the sun is rising fast, the moment will be gone in a few minutes. And it was, replaced by the broader experience of brighter sun, now enough above the fog bank to seemingly not change much in intensity compared to how quickly it seems to rise when near the horizon.

I retreated to the fence row. Love those frosty tall weeds backlit by the early sunlight. Mmm, mmm. Fingers are cold. Too bad. Toes are cold. Tough. This is fun, the experience is worth the discomfort.

I decide I've done all I want to with the tripod at its tallest. It's time to get down low. Down on the cold hard crust of snow. I am enthralled with the clumps of meadow grass bulging above the snow crust. Intrigued as usual by how the tan and brown grasses absorb the sun's heat and melt the snow on them, then around them in an ever widening region. Even a single blade of grass, an individual tiny stalk of a weed does it. I photograph a clump of grasses whose melted-out shape looks distinctly like a songbird to me. Which species I don't know; maybe several combined.

I am sitting on the snow on my knees and lower legs. The cold goes quickly through my jeans, and my skin and muscles complain with a stinging sensation that grows in intensity as my body heat melts the snow's surface and my pants become wet and cold instead of just cold. I stand back up to give my freezing lower legs some relief. I have shot one roll of film, and I wonder if the camera battery is getting too cold. If it's not overestimating the amount of light, resulting in underexposure of the film. So I reload with film return the camera to my warm chest and stomach area. I look around at all the rabbit tracks. Some really new, some half melted by the last couple days' worth of sunlight. I don't feel like waiting much longer, so I bring the camera back out for more kneeling shots. The low angle of the sunlight makes nice shadows, revealing detail by raking across the surface of the snow.

I finish the second roll of film. Two rolls of film, two hours, two cold hands, two frozen feet. Not bad. I could go on this way forever, it seems. Though it's cold, the lack of wind or even a breeze makes the ever higher sun feel warmer and warmer. It's not even mid February, but in the melting frost and snow I hear whispers of spring. I almost hate going back into the house. This is why I hate being pulled away from my work on the computer: because I love being pulled outside to shoot. You evil sunrises, you. Evil snow, dastardly meadow grasses and weeds and rabbit tracks. And fog. Moonrises are particularly magnetic. How's a guy supposed to get some work done around here? It's almost as bad as being on vacation. Pretty nice, it is.

I am in a state of deep serenity. I haven't even had breakfast, I'm cold, but I am so wonderfully alive. Not in a euphoric way, but better. Serene. Calm and relaxed and alive. I wish I could feel this way forever.