A Window in Time

I had not planned to spend the evening with a camera.

I was outside watering my enormous garden, moving through the familiar routine that comes with caring for a space that changes a little every day.

As the sun drifted lower, I found myself looking up more often than looking down. The sky shifted from fiery orange and yellow into a mellow, luminous purple. It unfolded slowly, asking only that I remain outside long enough to notice.

By then, I already knew this was not an ordinary sunset.

The camera was only a few steps away inside the house. I set the hose aside, stepped through the front door, and returned to the porch before the colors had finished changing.

The bridge would do what it always does. Cars would cross, and during a long exposure their headlights would become ribbons of light. That part was certain.

The sky was not.

Every evening offers the bridge. Only some evenings offer this sky.

What Stayed With Me

Constancy and change can exist in the same frame.

The lights always arrive. The sunset never arrives in precisely the same way twice.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning. Some parts of the world become familiar enough that we trust them; within that familiarity, nature reminds us that no moment is ever truly repeated.

Which familiar view continues to surprise you because you have stayed long enough to watch it change?