I caught a monster of a cold just as I arrived on Midway, and today was the first day I felt like I was on the upswing. Good thing, as it was the kind of morning I needed to be alert. As Manuel and I were watching the sunrise reflect beautiful light across an old hangar, something in me said, “turn around!”. What I saw was pure magic. I had to think fast, and quickly decide on my exposure and composition. Locking in the shot was crucial. You’ll see why.”
Forgive my croaky voice, and let Christen Lien’s beautiful viola take you into the spell of Midway. Thanks Christen!
Bill Weaver
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Terns
Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought,
but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.
It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky,
and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,
sweeping over the waves,
chattering and plunging,
their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes
happy as little nails.
The years to come — this is a promise –
will grant you ample time
to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.
But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
than this deep affinity between your eyes and the world.
The flock thickens
over the roiling, salt brightness. Listen,
maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world
in the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer,
but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,
is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,
but of pure submission. Tell me, what else
could beauty be for? And now the tide
is at its very crown,
the white birds sprinkle down,
gathering up the loose silver, rising
as if weightless. It isn’t instruction, or a parable.
It isn’t for any vanity or ambition
except for the one allowed, to stay alive.
It’s only a nimble frolic
over the waves. And you find, for hours,
you cannot even remember the questions
that weigh so in your mind.
~ Mary Oliver ~