The First Sunrise
The first sunrise of the year is on at 545am with a long slab of blood red cloud smothered in orange light refracting through a drizzle of rain somewhere over the horizon beyond the little sand islands that lay east of our woody nook.
For the first time this year (and it’s taken nearly four months), I forgo coffee. I forgo Facebook. I forgo Instagram and gather up my DSLR and wide-angle lens and exit into said light.
A few clicks into the session, a lady from down the road chats about cameras while her little fluffy dog drinks in the morning scene. Down to the creek I head, clicking bloody silhouettes along the way and marvelling how this lens creates crazy perspectives.
For 20 minutes the light show builds and then fades before the actual sunrise. I’m trying not to get too big a dynamic range between the silhouettes and the dawn and it looks like some post-production or a graduated ND filter will be needed.
For those 20 minutes I forget my problems. I forget the mate from up the road, whose funeral service saw my tears two days ago. I forget it’s a Monday, a workday. I forget the instruction on my stretchy industrial “rubber band” exercise thingee – “remember to breathe deeply while exercising” In fact I don’t even remember breathing. I’m in the moment, enjoying something special yet evanescent – a metaphor for life I suppose – enjoying the precious moments, because nothing is forever.