I sat at my desk most of the day today, reading and writing. At 4:50, I realized that the light would be fading quickly, leaving me little time to do one of the things I wanted to do today: take pictures on the greenway near my house. Quickly, I donned socks, shoes, sweater, coat and hat, grabbed my camera, seated the macro lens on the body, and started for the door.
“I’ll walk with you if you wait a few minutes,” my husband said. “I just need to change out of my suit and put on some jeans and my walking shoes.”
“Can’t wait,” I replied. “The light is fading. Maybe 10 minutes more at tops. Join me if you want on the trail. I’m shooting, won’t be walking far, so you should be able to catch up.”
The first picture I took was of the houses directly across from the greenway. The sun was just starting its rapid descent, streaking gold rays across the cold winter blue. I knew I didn’t have the right lens for this kind of shot, but I took it anyway. The sky was just too pretty to pass up.
I quickly walked to the path and into the grassy area between the pavement and the creek. With all of the rain recently, the banks were swollen as if it were late Spring, and the water was moving swiftly. When is a creek a creek, and not a river? This creek is sometimes so empty in the summer that you can walk across it. In the Spring, it will be deep and treacherous enough that people have drowned here, after their cars were swept away by the overflowing banks.
Throughout the grass were remnants of the snow and sleet from yesterday, mostly on the fallen leaves. There are still remnants of flowering plants along the trail, some with dried and frosty flower caps. A few milkweed pods remain too, their seed pods split, the seeds seemingly frozen into place. Even the slight breeze would not scatter the seeds.
Tomorrow I should head outside a little earlier in the afternoon, so that I have more light.