There’s a small period of time now, between summer and winter, when the light is as clear as it will ever be. It’s the interlude between when all the trees and bushes have shed their leaves but before the snow starts to cover everything.
Without the sunlight being filtered by the leaves from the aspens or willows, or refracted by snow, the light is so dazzling it makes me stop in my tracks. Could the bark of the aspen really be that purely white? Could the sky really be that deep blue? Maybe it’s my sunglasses intensifying the color. But no, it’s the lack of humidity, no moisture in the air to make the landscape fuzzy. The winds help, too, scouring the air of any possible dust or pollution.
In the fields, every blade and seed head of the crisp brown plants seems illuminated. Even the cabins in Meeker Park seem to glow from within as the sunlight hits them directly.
It’s the kind of light that makes me feel I could stride up the gray granite face of Mount Meeker, still snowless. The kind of light that makes me want to walk across the umber fields, all the way down to the plains, the grass crunching under my feet. The kind of light that buoys me, keeps me supported no matter what’s going on in the rest of the world.
On the pond (above), a group of mallards relax in this light, taking refuge in this safe spot—a small island that shelters them from coyotes or other predators. I envy their comfort, their total absorption in this sunlit moment. Any day now, the pond will start to freeze, and the ducks will have to find refuge elsewhere, at a lower elevation or farther south.
But for now, we’ll all revel in this light, so honest and stripped of any pretense that it crumples your heart a bit.
Love the writing and photography. Favorite words, "It’s the kind of light that makes me feel I could stride up the gray granite face of Mount Meeker, still snowless."
Posted by: Brent Zeinert | October 22, 2019 at 05:09 AM