Sunset Serenade

I love the light just before and after sunset just as I love the early morning light just before and after sunrise. But getting out to actually make photographs at that time of day has always been hard for me.

Every once in a while I make a commitment to myself that today is the day that I will make that extra effort. Tuesday evening was the day I kept my commitment to head out for the sunset, even though I was sore and tired at the end of the day.

I was rewarded with a

The colors, scents, and sounds of the evening permeated my entire being. I felt as if I was soaking in beauty through every cell of my body. Crickets chirped, birds sang, a sweet herbal scent filled the air, and the colors were soft and rich in the evening light.

Several other photographers were there, doing portrait shoots. But I saw no one else wandering around simply soaking in the ambience of the evening like I was. The evening reminded me that sometimes I need to make an extra effort to do the things I love. Though I was sore and tired when I arrived, the garden lifted me up and filled my soul with beauty.

Simple things, like walking in a garden just before sunset are free to us all. Yet it’s easy to get caught up in busyness, social media, and books. When was the last time that you set out to watch a sunrise or a sunset? And how long has it been since you’ve gone out into the countryside at night to gaze at the night sky? That’s another thing on my list that feels more accessible to me as the day length shortens. Perhaps it will be the next outing that I plan for myself.

You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods

You are standing at the edge of the woods

at twilight

when something begins

to sing, like a waterfall

pouring down

through the leaves. It is

the thrush.

And you are just

sinking down into your thoughts,

taking in

the sweetness of it—those chords,

those pursed twirls—when you hear

out of the same twilight

the wildest red outcry. It pitches itself

forward, it flails and scabs

all the surrounding space with such authority

you can’t tell

whether it is crying out on the

scarp of victory, with its hooked foot

dabbed into some creature that now

with snapped spine

lies on the earth—or whether

it is such a struck body itself, saying

goodbye.

The thrush

is silent then, or perhaps

has flown away.

The dark grows darker.

The moon,

in its shining white blouse,

rises.

And whatever that wild cry was

it will always remain a mystery

you have to go home now and live with,

sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,

for the rest of your life.

— Mary Oliver