What the Morning Brings

Morning is a special time. The world is still holding the chill and moisture of the night that's barely finished passing — and I find myself thinking about the flowers that survived the dark, and what that passage means to them, in whatever way it means something.

We carry a certain hubris about knowing what feels and what doesn't. I'm less sure about that than I used to be.

Macro work like this feels like a different kind of conversation. I don't need a long lens. These are willing subjects. I can move as close as I want, try every angle, stay as long as it takes — until I feel that quiet tickle that tells me something is right. Artists know that feeling. The moment the frame settles into itself.

The only rule is not to block the sun. As long as I respect that, the flower doesn't seem to mind.

This cosmos stopped me. That deep yellow against the morning blue, the orange center warm and grounding, and the dew still caught on the petals like something placed there deliberately. The light found each drop and turned them into something jewel-like.

I didn't do that. I just showed up early enough to see it.

Some mornings, that's exactly enough.