The magic hour

With the sun already slipping below the horizon, I packed up my gear and headed out the door for the minute or so walk to the lake.  By the time I reached Sunset Bay, all but the last vestiges of sunlight had vanished and what little remained offered nothing more than the soft, warm glow of a distant fire reflected in the clouds.

Yet something magical happens at dusk, at that time after sunset but before darkness settles in completely, those precious and scarce moments when the world seems torn asunder with night full to the east and day grasping at its final seconds to the west.

The orange embers of day faded quickly as I approached the shore.  A chill settled over the land, a quick cutting of the air that seemed hurried to reclaim from daylight all that it could touch, so I pulled my jacket a bit tighter about me.

Cool winds slid over the water and rushed ashore.  The bay offered no protection.

I considered turning back, going home.  What possible opportunities rested in dark times?

Then an armada of shadows came near such that I felt I could reach out and grasp their lightless forms.

A covert of American coots (Fulica americana) swimming near shore (2009_02_13_008288)

At first I believed them to be alike, creatures of one form forever clad in the dark armor of dusk, yet my feeble human eyes grew accustomed to failing light and with that newfound strength, I began to see a menagerie of ghostly figures.

Some danced in pools of reflection that captured day’s end and sent it back heavenward in ripples of color.  Some took flight on ethereal wings and floated effortlessly on air.  Some walked the earth with the likeness of corporeal substance.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) walking toward me (2009_02_13_008300)

All shapes and colors materialized, wisps of smoke manifest in fleshly forms, whispers from the dark only dreams could create.

How soon I realized the bewitched armies of dusk were on the move.  Battalions and regiments and squadrons and fleets took shape from what moments before had been the empty evening.  And finally the horn players appeared and sounded the trumpets of advance.  The march had begun.

A brown domestic swan goose (a.k.a. Chinese goose or African goose; Anser cygnoides) floating just offshore (2009_02_13_008307)

Up from the depths and out of the sky came hordes of spirits in guises both familiar and alien.  Whether from the cold or fear, I could not escape the tremble whose skeletal fingers ran down my spine, the specter of death in the face of such monstrous beauty as took shape before me.

Cloaked in white save the crimson of her face, the high priestess of this gathering flitted upon the breeze to a station nearby where she glowed as though capturing all light and bringing it unto herself.  All around her dimmed in her presence.

A white female Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata) standing quietly (2009_02_13_008462)

Then the sky became one with the lake, a powerful act she wished into being without the slightest gesture, and upon the water’s surface the heavens fell.  What hues!  What patterns!

The magic she wielded summoned yet more demons, yet more powerful beings, yet more fantastic works of the gods.  And where the elements beckoned to her call and became one, the waters parted for the royal court who would this night stand before the armies of dusk and bow to the god and goddess of royalty.

A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) swimming in the shallows (2009_02_13_008503)

A hush seemed to fall.  I found myself holding my breath and wondering.  Would I survive this encounter with those of this other world, this place betwixt the realm of light and the realm of dark?  What hides such power from the witnesses of life?  What was yet to come?

Even then they arrived, the royal guards whose voices chase away devils and whose approach sends challengers fleeing.  With them they ushered in the last inhalation of the hour, and then they exhaled the mystic thought that chased the day away.  And the light hurried over the horizon.

A ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) enjoying the sunset (2009_02_13_008419)

Then they came.  I tried not to look, tried not to meet their gaze.  My attempts were futile.  My humble soul could not refuse the deities who slipped between worlds and ruled the dusk.

First the god-queen who herself was made of light and shadow and all that exists in between.  She floated from place to place, a body in the guise of spirits and a soul in the guise of flesh, and she took her place where land and sea and air joined as one.

A female wood duck (Aix sponsa) paddling slowly close to land (2009_02_13_008560)

In her eyes I found eternity, the burning depths of the universe filled with stars and conquest, her reach forever and her will undeniable.  Yet even she knew subservience.  I saw a goddess bow her head, and in that instant I revered what was to come.

And finally, the god-king.  Eyes of crimson rage and fiery passion, cloaked with colors no being could imagine, the order of all that is became apparent while in the presence of such power.  He seemed to draw strength from the worship that flooded over him, from the absolute knowledge of all those gathered that he was the first and would be the last, that he breathed life into the cosmos for his own entertainment, that he demanded unwavering trust and unflinching allegiance.  The sanctity of the encounter grew as I realized trepidation followed heartfelt devotion: this shadow cast felt such ardor for their gods, such deference.  They would follow them unto the end of time and would sacrifice their lives for them.

A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) drifting in the lake with full breeding plumage on display (2009_02_13_008554)

Only the hour that is neither day nor night could contain such magic.  Only dusk could give stage to beings such as these.

I watched as they marched onward, a legion vast before which all fell, a countless army of shadows before which a wave of triumph washed over the land and brushed aside all challengers.  I watched as the god-queen and god-king empowered the innumerable to unstoppable success; they vanquished all who stood in their way.

Then the last drop of light fell into the cupped hands of the world.  Nightfall…

I shook myself lose from the imaginings that had filled my mind.  I still wanted to take pictures.

Ah, but the day had ended, dusk had been eclipsed by dark, and I stood at the shore of Sunset Bay where I had begun my walk.  I hadn’t even lifted the camera from my side.  I felt there was no sense in trying after night enveloped the area.  I turned and walked home.

Only the next day would I discover the memory card full of pictures I never took, of creatures I never saw, of encounters I never had.  Only the next day would I again wonder about the armies of dusk.  Only the next day would I ponder an encounter with gods made of shadow and light, of armies before which light itself would retreat.  Only the next day would I wonder…

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] A covert of American coots (Fulica americana) swimming near shore.

[2] A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) walking toward me.

[3] A brown domestic swan goose (a.k.a. Chinese goose or African goose; Anser cygnoides) floating just offshore.

[4] A white female Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata) standing quietly.

[5] A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) swimming in the shallows.

[6] A ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) enjoying the sunset.

[7] A female wood duck (Aix sponsa) paddling slowly close to land.

[8] A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) drifting in the lake with full breeding plumage on display.

From the living room to the back door

I’ve unfortunately been too busy with work and last week too sick with the flu to do much walking at the lake, let alone to do much in the way of photography.

That vexes me, yes, but things could be worse: I could be unemployed.  Now’s hardly the time to complain when it comes to being overworked and underpaid.

All the while, I’m back on call this week (what a familiar refrain that’s become).  There’s no chance of getting out for more than a visit to the patio.

But the patio’s not at all bad considering where I live.  So much life flourishes at White Rock Lake that living here makes it all but impossible to not see something of interest even if the length of my walk is from the living room to the back door.

A male house sparrow (Passer domesticus) perched in the tree (2008_12_17_002590)

A male house sparrow (Passer domesticus) perched in the tree is a familiar vision.  A veritable horde of this species lives nearby, so they make for constant companions throughout the year.

But these are not brave birds, I’ve discovered.

A cardinal need only hiss to frighten the sparrows away, and even a Carolina wren can chase the sparrows off.  Having seen both events recently as many species vied for a bit of the birdseed bounty I put out, I laughed each time: surprised to see a male cardinal be so forceful and shocked to see a tiny wren send the sparrows fleeing for their lives.

A northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) perched in a tree (2008_12_17_002579)

Northern mockingbirds (Mimus polyglottos) are as ubiquitous as they are fearless.  When all other birds flee, at least one mockingbird will be around to keep an eye on things.  When a predator moves in, at least one mockingbird will sound the alarm and launch the first assault.  When other birds invade territory that somehow is sacred—nesting season or not, the mockingbirds sweep in and attack.

How beautiful their diverse repertoire of song, though.  The other morning I thought one of the local monk parakeets had landed in my tree; the mockingbird offered a perfect copy of the bird’s sound.  Only when it launched into a complete musical presentation full of various songs and sounds did I realize I had been fooled, and joyously so I will admit!

A friendly fly (a.k.a. government fly or large flesh fly; Sarcophaga aldrichi) sunning on the patio fence (2009_01_07_004240)

The friendly fly (a.k.a. government fly or large flesh fly; Sarcophaga aldrichi) looks like the common housefly; the only difference is that it’s noticeably larger than its pesky cousin.

In the midst of a winter that has been overly warm, I discovered this friendly fly grabbing a bit of sun on the patio fence.  Hot enough for me to be in shorts and a tee shirt and quite to the fly’s liking, we spent a wee bit of time together as it warmed its wings.

They’re called friendly for a reason, you know.

A green anole (Anolis carolinensis) sunning on the patio fence (2009_01_09_004279)

Green anoles (Anolis carolinensis) began leaving hibernation in the middle of December.  That worried me.  A winter that wasn’t much of a winter provided enough warmth for the lizards to seek heat and nourishment.  Only one of those commodities was in abundance.

The first anole I saw showed ribs through taught scales.  Others who followed worried me with the same presentation.

As December gave way to January and the springlike winter continued, more insects showed up and the anoles filled their skins a bit more until finally they looked healthy again.

And notice how this one has matched the paint color on the fence.  Chameleons change color to control body heat and to communicate.  Anoles, on the other hand, change color to control body heat, to communicate and to act as camouflage.  I’ve seen them match colors no chameleon could touch, and I’ve seen them do it with blazing speed and precision.

A Virginia opossum (a.k.a. possum; Didelphis virginiana) eating cat food on the patio (2009_01_19_005240)

One of my neighbors enjoys the local Virginia opossums (a.k.a. possum; Didelphis virginiana) about as much as I do.  She told me one day that someone walked by and saw her snapping photos in the dead of night—photos apparently focused on something quite mundane: a tree.

She was taking pictures of a juvenile opossum who’d climbed the tree in response to an approaching dog.

I do love opossums, love their personalities, their singular claim to being a marsupial in North America, their gentle dispositions, their methodical approach to movement that keenly hides an ability to move rather quickly when the need arises.

Finding this one early one evening as it enjoyed some of the cat food on the patio made for a pleasant discovery.

A Carolina wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus) standing on a gardening glove (2009_02_02_006025)

I absolutely adore Carolina wrens (Thryothorus ludovicianus).  The busybodies of the bird world, they look like a bunch of Chatty Kathy dolls marching along beneath the shrubs as they gossip and bicker and jabber throughout their search for a bite to eat.

Like mockingbirds, they also lack the overwhelming fear of people that most species (should!) have.  I can’t begin to count the number of times one has perched on the fence next to me or hopped on my foot as it made its way across the patio.

A gardening glove that blew in during a powerful wind storm provided the perfect scale as this one bopped along in speckled sunlight between the fence and the photinias.  Not large at all, these wrens make up with attitude what they lack in size.  How delectably enjoyable!

Six years?

A close-up of Vazra with wide eyes as Kako rests comfortably in the background (2008_12_27_003727)

Vazra was as surprised as I was when less than a week ago this blog reached six years of age.

We never saw that coming.

And Kako in the background never moved, never gave it a second thought.  In fact, she scoffed at the idea and spit upon the premise that anything might be more noteworthy than her needs.  But that’s how she is…

A new dawn

A male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) perched in the bushes (2009_01_25_005283)

I wrote this last June:

A pair of cardinals for many years has nested not too far from my garage door.  This year, for reasons I can’t explain, the female died.  Many a day this past week have I spent weeping with the male as he called from shadowy places that lonesome song begging for answers, begging for her return.  Soon he must take leave of her absence, move on from what he presently denies.  And still I cry thinking about it.

Not until December did the male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) find a new mate—or perhaps not until December did he find the strength to move on from his lamentations.  I suspect the latter given the woeful dirge he sang for so many months, crying I shared each time I saw him pleading with that empty tree as though she might suddenly burst from its branches.

Whether morning, noon or night, I would stand in the garage and cry upon the altar of hope all that I had within me as he sang and wept and pleaded for one more second with his love.  Yet I knew she would not return.

After more time than I thought possible, however, his weeping turned to wooing, a change in his singing that was all too evident.  Not too long after I noticed the difference in his demeanor did I finally set eyes upon the woman vying for his affection.

She’s a splendid thing, a beautiful creature worthy of this man’s dedicated love.

And he does indeed shower her with love.

Shortly after I snapped that photo of him as he surveyed the birdseed I put out, a scene full of other birds coming and going, he dashed into the midst of the avian storm and grabbed a seed.  She hunkered nearby in another bush.

He flitted to her position, cracked the shell and dropped it, then delicately fed her the nutritious heart of a sunflower seed.  It was like a kiss.  I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry or shout in triumph.

His months of agony last year hurt me deeply.  The sorrowful song he sang cut me like a blade put to flesh.  What beautiful emotions these creatures have, and the more beautiful they become when they share them with us.

So seeing him tending to his new bride in this way gives me hope, lifts me up, tells me sorrow doesn’t have to last forever.