Let There Be Light

Wordless Wednesday - Sundown

Friday Ramble - Flaming Amazement

Sweet August, great rounds of baled hay in the eastern Ontario highlands, deer and wild turkeys feeding under the trees at dawn and dusk, shadows stretching long skinny fingers across farm fields at the end of the day, the setting sun viewed through strands of timothy, barley and tall white bush clover...

Shadows slanting across the landscape lengthen, grow sharper and deeper as days grow shorter. As if to compensate for waning daylight hours, northern sunsets light up the horizon in gold, inky blue and purple, perfect molten light and technicolor clouds.  

The evening sun flames amazement as it drops below the horizon. I have always loved the words  "I flamed amazement", spoken by the air spirit Ariel in William Shakespeare's The Tempest, (Act I, Scene 2). The expression seems just right for a balmy late summer evening when the setting sun is putting on a blazing show, and there is magic in the air.

For the mariners of Shakespeare's play, Ariel's performance was St. Elmo's fire, a fey glow that sometimes appears around ship masts, church spires and chimneys during storms, and from time to time, the leading edge of aircraft wings. Its appearance was thought to be a good omen, a sign that the ship and its crew were under the protection of St Erasmus of Formia (St. Elmo), patron saint of seafarers. Science tells us otherwise. The phenomenon is a corona discharge (ionized air) generated during a thunder storm, and there is no fire hazard. Splendid, spooky stuff though.

Beau and I lean against a fence in the western field, and camera and lens can scarcely take in all the riches on offer. The setting sun dazzles as it drops out of sight behind the trees on the far side, and the waxing gibbous moon seems lit from within. The moon has no light of her own and borrows it from the sun, but it always seems otherwise to us at this time of the year.

The light at the end of an August day is enough to make one swoon in delight. I would give almost anything for a sari in such glorious, elemental colors.

Lake and Setting Sun

 It's the light that gets you, every time.

Flaming Amazement

Ah, these burnished summer days! In the eastern Ontario highlands, the rolling fields are dappled with rounds of baled hay. Shadows stretch long skinny fingers across cropped acreages at dusk, and deer and wild turkeys feed under the trees.

The evening sun flames amazement as it drops below the horizon. I've always loved the words "I flamed amazement", spoken by Ariel in William Shakespeare's The Tempest, (Act I, Scene 2). They seem just right for a balmy summer evening when the setting sun is putting on a blazing, fiery show, and there is magic in the air.

Shadows slanting across the landscape lengthen, grow sharper and deeper as days grow shorter. As if to compensate for waning daylight hours, northern sunsets light up the horizon in gold, inky blue and purple, perfect molten light and technicolor clouds. 

Beau and I lean against a fence at sunset, and my camera and lens can scarcely take in all the riches on offer. The setting sun dazzles our eyes, and the waxing moon is as lustrous as a great cosmic pearl; she seems lit from within. I know the moon has no light of her own and borrows it from the sun, but it always seems otherwise at this time of the year. The fabulous sundown light is enough to make one swoon in delight.

By My Pond at Sunset

Friday Ramble - Flaming Amazement

Ah, sweet August, great rounds of baled hay in the eastern Ontario highlands, deer and wild turkeys feeding under the trees at dawn and dusk, shadows stretching long skinny fingers across farm fields at the end of the day, the setting sun viewed through strands of timothy, barley and tall white bush clover...

The shadows slanting across pastures lengthen, grow sharper and deeper as days become shorter, and as if to compensate for waning daylight hours, northern sunsets turn intense. Crimson, fiery gold, inky blue and purple skies, molten light and technicolor clouds are a perfect backdrop for fields of ripening grain.

The evening sun seems to flame amazement as it drops below the horizon. I've always loved the words "I flamed amazement", spoken by the playful spirit Ariel in Shakespeare's The Tempest, and they seem just right for an evening in August when the setting sun is putting on a fine show. Is there magic? Oh yes...

Beau and I lean against a fence at sunset looking west, and our camera and lens can scarcely take in all the riches on offer. The setting sun dazzles the eyes, and a fragile crescent of waxing moon nearby seems lit from within. We know the moon has no light of her own and borrows it from the sun, but it always seems otherwise to us at this time of the year.

The light at the end of an August day is enough to make one swoon in delight. I wish I had a sari in these glorious, elemental colors.

Wordless Wednesday - Looking West

Friday Ramble - Flaming Amazement

Ah, sweet July, great rounds of baled hay in the eastern Ontario highlands, deer and wild turkeys feeding under the trees at dawn and dusk, shadows stretching long skinny fingers across farm fields at the end of the day, the setting sun viewed through strands of ripening timothy, alfalfa and tall white bush clover...

The shadows slanting across pastures lengthen, grow sharper and deeper as days become shorter, and as if to compensate for waning daylight hours, our northern sunsets turn intense: crimson, fiery gold, inky blue and purple skies, perfect molten light and technicolor clouds.

The evening sun flames amazement as it drops below the horizon. I've always loved the words "I flamed amazement", spoken by the playful spirit Ariel in Shakespeare's The Tempest - they seem just right for an evening in early July when the setting sun is putting on a fine show. Is there magic?  Oh yes...

Beau and I lean against a fence along the edge of the western field at sunset, and my camera and lens can scarcely take in all the riches on offer.  The setting sun dazzles the eyes, and the waxing moon is as lustrous as a great cosmic pearl; she seems lit from within. I know the moon has no light of her own and borrows it from the sun, but it always seems otherwise at this time of the year.

Health stuff or no health stuff, just how lucky can one old hen be? The fabulous sundown light is enough to make one swoon in delight.

Lake and Setting Sun

It's the light that gets you, every single time.