An evening at Cayuga Lake Inlet, home to the Cornell University Crew, is depicted as a serene haven for reflection. The Collyer Boathouse, vital to the local lore, sits across the inlet holding a rich history of crew camaraderie and competition.
Autumn leaves whisper,
By the calm inlet they dance,
Maple’s red embrace,
History in every branch,
Nature’s heart in silent chant.
Whispering ice threads,
Sunset paints the silent sky—
Autumn’s breath grows cold.
As the sun dipped lower, casting its farewell in hues of amber and soft gold, Pam and I stood beside the serene Cayuga Lake Inlet, gazing westward. The stillness of the evening was a quiet symphony, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of water against the shore. It was November 5th, and the world seemed to hold its breath in the golden hour, that perfect moment minutes before the sun would bid its final adieu for the day.
Above us, the sky was a canvas of nature’s delicate brushwork – the Cirrus fibratus. These high-altitude clouds, ethereal and wispy, stretched across the sky like strands of silken thread. The cirrus clouds, the feathery remnants of far-travelled storms, are the poets of the atmosphere, telling tales of weather yet to come. Their presence was both a testament to the day’s tranquility and a harbinger of change looming on the horizon.
Cirrus fibratus clouds, in their striated splendor, often signal the approach of a warm front and are associated with the shifts in weather patterns. As we stood there, the clouds seemed to be etching the sky with messages in a cryptic script, hints of the coming days. These clouds, so high in the sky, are formed from ice crystals, and their very existence speaks of the coldness of the upper atmosphere, as the days down here by the lake inlet lengthen towards the winter solstice.
The days of early November, with their crisp air and the promise of winter, bring a change in the light, a deepening of colors, and a certain clarity to the world. The skies seem grander, a vast dome of ever-changing artistry, and the Cirrus fibratus are our guides to the imminent transformation. They remind us that the earth is tilting away from the sun in our hemisphere, pulling us into the cooler seasons.
These cirrus formations, while signaling the shifts in weather, also play with the light of the lengthening days. The sun’s rays, ever lower on the horizon, catch the ice crystals, creating a prism effect that can result in sundogs, those bright spots of light that occasionally grace the sky at solar dawn or dusk. They add a mystical quality to the already enchanted time of day.
As the twilight deepened, the Cirrus fibratus began to glow with the sun’s final touch, turning from white to shades of pink and fiery orange. This spectacle was a gentle reminder of the passage of time, the cycles of nature, and the endless dance between the earth and the sun. The clouds foretold of cooler weather, perhaps a sign that we should cherish these last vestiges of autumnal warmth.
As night began to embrace the sky, the clouds slowly faded from our sight, but the memory of their beauty and the secrets they carried lingered. They are not just ice and air; they are messengers, carrying the stories of the atmosphere from one part of the world to another, connecting us with the rhythms of the earth in their ceaseless journey.
In the coming days, we would watch the sky, taking note of the cirrus and the subtle cues they offered. Would there be rain, a storm, or perhaps a clear day that belies the cold snap in the air? Only time would tell, but for now, we stood in silent appreciation of nature’s grace, feeling the profound connection to the world around us that only a sunset watched together can bring.
Michael Stephen Wills’ photos depict the vibrant nature of the Finger Lakes.
A child and grandfather create lasting memories during a post-Thanksgiving leaf gathering ritual.
In the gentle embrace of the Finger Lakes region of New York State, the crisp post-Thanksgiving air is a mix of woodsmoke and the faint whisper of winter on the horizon. The earthy scent of fallen leaves, damp from the morning dew, begins to permeate the atmosphere, beckoning families outdoors to partake in the timeless ritual of leaf gathering.
The landscape is a canvas of russet and gold, painted by the hands of autumn. In one of the many serene backyards, framed by the skeletal silhouettes of trees now slumbering after their fiery display, a mound of leaves becomes the center of joyous activity. Here, a child, bundled in the cozy layers necessary to fend off the chill, is immersed in the simple, yet profound act of play. The leaves, a tapestry of oaks and maples, become her castle, her sea, her world to explore.
Her laughter rings clear, a melodic counterpoint to the rustling leaves as she is lifted high by loving hands only to descend into the crunchy embrace of her leafy playpen. A grandfather, his face etched with the smile lines of countless summers and autumns past, becomes the orchestrator of this joy. His flannel shirt, a patchwork of reds and greens, reflects the colors of the season, and his hands, weathered from years of tending to the earth and its cycles, now tenderly guide the child in her play.
The rake, usually a tool of labor, becomes a wand of magic, directing the leaves into heaps that rise and fall with each jump and dive. The child’s mittened hands grasp at the leaves, each one a different hue, a different shape, a different story. They fly up around her like a flock of birds taking flight, then settle back into their collective, creating a soft rustling symphony that speaks of the changing season.
As the sun begins to dip lower, casting elongated shadows across the yard, the child’s energy wanes. The vibrant activity gives way to tranquil moments of rest, with the child now lying still among the leaves, her eyes reflecting the vastness of the sky above, clear and blue, a window between the earthly and the infinite.
The day wanes, and the leaf-gathering winds down. A final tableau shows the child, now indoors, cocooned in the warmth of a blanket that mirrors the plaid of her grandfather’s shirt, the same colors now muted and soft. Her eyes are heavy with the weight of a day well spent, her dreams surely filled with the laughter and the leaves and the boundless love that turns even the simplest act into a treasure of memories.
This is the essence of leaf gathering in the Finger Lakes after Thanksgiving – not just the collection of what has fallen, but the gathering of family, of joy, and of moments that will be cherished and recalled long after the last leaf has been tucked into the earth’s winter bed. It’s a time when the harvest is not just of the land’s bounty but of the heart’s. Each leaf, a reminder that even as the world prepares to sleep beneath the snow, life is rich, full, and evergreen in the hearts of those who share it.
In 2003 and 2008, the author visited and photographed White House Ruin in Canyon de Chelly, observing changes in landscape.
In November 2003, my son Sean and I journeyed up Route 191 from Petrified Forest National Park, arriving in Chinle on a crisp autumn afternoon. My photography equipment at the time was modest: a Sony Point and Shoot 5 MP camera with filters, a purse-like over-the-shoulder bag, and a basic tripod from Kmart.
We reached the White House trailhead in Canyon de Chelly and began our hike. The trail was quiet, and as the sun set at 5:20 pm, we found ourselves virtually alone. A dense growth of Russian Olive trees dominated the wash at that time. In the dimming light, I captured a distant shot of the White House Ruin, whitewashed, set against the backdrop of autumn-hued Russian Olive foliage. Nearby, a grove of Cottonwoods, still green, stood near the canyon wall.
By the time Pam and I returned in July 2008, four years and nine months later, the landscape had changed. The invasive Russian Olives had been removed, and the White House Ruin was no longer painted white.
The same Route 191 that Sean and I had taken in 2003 led us through the Four Corners region of Northern Arizona. Pam and I had traveled from Colorado, arriving in the late afternoon. This time, the Navajo Reservation’s adherence to daylight savings time meant the sun wouldn’t set until 8:33 pm. My aim was to photograph the White House Ruin that I had missed years earlier.
That July day the sun set 8:33 pm as the Navajo Reservation observes daylight savings time. My goal was to photograph the White House Ruin I missed in 2003. We arrived at the trail head. My photography kit was expanded from 2003, now included a Kodak DSC Pro slr/C, the “C” meaning “Canon” lens mounting, a Sony 700 alpha slr (I only use a variable lens), Manfrotto tripod with hydrostatic ball head, and the backpack style Lowe camera case. With the tripod it is over 25 pounds.
With this on my back I was prepared to boogie down the trail. At the height of tourist season there were many more people at the trailhead. Pam, being a friendly person, started a conversation while I ploughed ahead along the flat canyon rim. It is solid red sandstone, beautiful, generally level with enough unevenness to require attention. When Pam saw how far ahead I was she tried to catch up, tripped, fell hard.
I backtracked to Pam and we decided what to do. She thought, maybe, the fall broke a rib. We decided to proceed and descended, slowly, together. Here we are in front of the ruin. The sun, low in the sky, is moving below the south canyon wall. This is a perfect time, and I used both cameras.
The sweep of cliff and desert varnish was my intent to capture. Here it is through the Canon 50 mm lens.
I captured this version with the Sony Alpha 700 slr, the variable lens set to widest angle.
Here the camera setup waits out the sun…..
Among the 7,000 year old remains found in Windover Bog was the skeleton of a boy crippled from spina bifida who had to be carried around and treated for the 16 years of his life.
I was born into a world that danced around me, a world I could only witness but never fully join. My legs, unlike those of the other children in our tribe, refused to carry me. I spent my days close to our hut, watching the life of our village unfold from my corner, shaded by the leafy arms of the great trees.
My mother was my bridge to the world. She carried me to the edge of the waters, where I would watch my friends play, their laughter a melody I cherished. She showed me the way the water held stories, the way the reeds whispered in the wind. She taught me to weave, my fingers nimble and quick, making up for my still legs.
As I grew, I found my place among my people. I became a keeper of stories, a weaver of tales, just as I wove reeds into baskets. My voice became my movement, my words a dance.
Then, illness found me. It crept into our hut, a shadow that no fire could dispel. My mother’s eyes, always so full of warmth, grew clouded with fear. She fought for me, her hands constantly working – crushing herbs, whispering prayers.
I saw her struggle; saw the toll it took. I wanted to ease her burden, tell her it would be alright, but my voice had begun to fail me. All I could do was squeeze her hand, a silent message of love and gratitude.
As my breaths grew shallower, I watched her. She was my world, her face the last thing I saw as I drifted away, her lullabies carrying me to a place of peace.
I am his mother, heartbroken and weary. My son, my joy, lies motionless, his chest barely rising. I had always carried him, but now, there’s a journey I cannot make with him.
I remember his laughter, bright and clear, despite his bound body. His spirit had wings, even if his legs did not. He was the light of our tribe, a storyteller, a dreamer.
When he leaves me, my heart shatters. The tribe gathers, offering comfort, but the void he leaves is too vast. We prepare him for his final journey, wrapping his body, laying beside him his favorite weaving tools, the small toys he cherished.
We take him to the bog, our sacred place. Gently, we lay him in the water, his final cradle. The waters close over him, holding him in an eternal embrace.
Years pass, but his memory remains, alive in the stories I tell by the fire.
Sere Goldenrod
West Hill, Ithaca, resolves to this plain here sere goldenrod, abandoned barn, silo, distant hills. We headed out from home as sunset approached.
I was reading the story of Jacob and Laban and encountered the word “Mizpah” is Hebrew for “watchtower”. It is used to refer to an emotional bond or covenant made between two people with God as their witness, often symbolized by a pile of stones marking an agreement. Mizpah sounds similar to “Mitzvah,” often used to mean “a good deed,” and is related to the Aramaic word “tzavta,” which means to attach or join. This term is commonly used to describe any charitable act and has deep roots in Jewish tradition and texts, such as the Jerusalem Talmud.
The relationship between “Mizpah” and “Mitzvah” seems to be more linguistic and symbolic rather than direct. Both terms originate from Semitic languages and carry connotations of connection and covenant. “Mizpah” symbolizes a bond overseen by God, while “Mitzvah” refers to actions that connect individuals through good deeds, potentially strengthening communal bonds.
In a heartwarming YouTube video, Samuel Jack Wills and his grandmother Pam turn cake-making into an adventure in celebration of his Batman-themed birthday. The video captures endearing family traditions, from a talking doorbell to playful gift unwrapping, and culminates in the creation of a Bat-Signal adorned cake and joyous birthday song.
🎉 Get ready for an extraordinary adventure into the world of cake-making with our superstar, Samuel Jack Wills, and his magical sidekick, Grandma Pam! 🍰✨ It’s a special day just before Halloween, and the excitement is as palpable as the crisp autumn air. 🍂
🦇 In our latest heartwarming YouTube video, witness the grand entrance of our birthday hero, Sam, as he strides through the gate with his dad, Sean Wills, to a chorus of giggles and gasps, thanks to our quirky, talking doorbell that’s become an outrageous family tradition. 🎈
Join us in the celebration as Sam unwraps wonders from Grandma Pam and Grandpa Michael: from a thrilling Batman-themed birthday card that lights up the room with a Bat-Signal magnetic sticker, to a fleet of Gotham-inspired toys including an aircraft, the Batcave, and even miniature treasures like a suitcase brimming with play 100 dollar bills. 🏰💰
Sam and Grandma Pam put on their chef hats, discussing and designing a cake that’s not just a treat but a superhero saga! 🎂 With buttercream as smooth as velvet and chocolate layers that whisper ‘indulge’, they create a masterpiece adorned with blue and yellow frosting, featuring the iconic Bat-Signal.
And what’s a Batcave without boulders? Watch them skillfully make Rice Krispy treat boulders to scatter around their edible Batcave — a feast for the eyes as much as the taste buds. 🍫
The grand finale is a chorus of joy as Sam, surrounded by his loving family, basks in the glow of birthday candles and the warmth of the Birthday Song. 🎶 It’s a day where memories are made, laughter is shared, and love is multiplied.
So grab your capes, click on our video, and be a part of our delightful celebration that’s sure to lift your spirits sky-high! 🚀 Don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more family fun with the Wills clan! #SuperSamCakeAdventure 🥳👨🍳
Welcome to The Hole – don’t bother looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s probably just another train coming to run you down.
The first light of dawn hadn’t yet dared to creep through the dense overhang of the Queens sky as I rolled my Chevy into the kind of neighborhood where hope seemed to have packed up and skipped town – The Hole, New York’s forgotten stepchild. A scrap of no-man’s land straddling the invisible line between Queens and Brooklyn, it was the kind of place that cabbies avoided after the sun punched out for the day.
The Hole had a reputation that’d curl a mobster’s hair. It was a dank underbelly of the city, sitting thirty feet below the rest like a dirty secret. It was the city’s afterthought, a neighborhood swallowed by the infrastructure and indifference, where houses teetered on the brink of collapse, the law was just a rumor. Where even water has nowhere else to go.
My ’63 Bel Air came to a rest outside an all-night diner that looked like it served more trouble than coffee. The sign out front flickered a sickly hue of orange, a weary beacon to the lost souls seeking refuge from their own bad decisions. Inside, the air was a cocktail of grease, tobacco, and the tang of desperation. I slid into a booth that had seen better nights, my back to the wall, always facing the door. You learned to watch your own back in The Hole.
The waitress, a broad with more miles on her than my Chevy, slid over to me. “What’s it gonna be, mister?” she asked, her voice husky from too many cigarettes and not enough dreams.
“Coffee, black,” I replied, scanning the room for the face I was supposed to meet. He was a two-bit informant with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge. But he had a line on what was going down in The Hole, and I needed the inside scoop.
The Hole didn’t do gentle wakes; it was a sledgehammer of reality from the get-go. This was a corner of Queens that spat out the bones of the American Dream like it was chewing tobacco. The buildings, adorned with the scars of graffiti, stood like a row of rotten teeth, and the streets had potholes big enough to bury a body in. And bury they did; the marshy grounds were rumored to be a final resting place for those who crossed the wrong people, where wise guys played hide and seek with a .38.
I sipped my coffee, hot and bitter as the wind that whistled through the bullet holes of the stop sign outside. The streets were quiet, but that kind of quiet that screams trouble, like the breathless calm before a storm. The Hole didn’t do sunshine and rainbows. It did rain that fell like tears of the angels too drunk to care anymore, soaking through your coat and into your bones.
The door creaked open, and in walked my informant, Joey “The Snitch” Wakovski. He scanned the room with eyes that darted like roaches when the lights flick on. Spotting me, he shuffled over, each step a testament to a life misspent.
“You got something for me, Joey?” I asked without pleasantries. Time was a luxury in The Hole. It had a habit of running out, often along with your luck.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the swirling black depths of my coffee. “There’s talk, see. The Kamorovs are moving in on the Guerreros’ turf. Gonna be a bloodbath.”
The Kamorovs and Guerreros were The Hole’s version of royalty, if royalty’s crowns were made of brass knuckles and their scepters were Tommy guns. A war between them would turn the streets into a butcher’s shop.
“Any idea when?” I pressed.
“Soon,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re loading up. Guns coming in from upstate. It’s gonna be big.”
The waitress sauntered over, eyeing Joey with suspicion before she asked, “You havin’ anything?”
He shook his head. “Nah, just the news.”
She shrugged and walked away, her interest in our conversation as dead as my third-grade goldfish. I dropped a few bills on the table. “Thanks, Joey. Keep your head down, huh?”
He snorted. “In The Hole, better to keep it up. That way, you see the reaper coming.”
I left him there, nursing the paranoia that kept him breathing, and stepped back into the streets. The sun had finally broken through, casting a light that seemed almost indecent against the grime. But it did little to warm the chill that had settled in my gut.
The Hole was about to explode, and blood was going to flow through these streets like a biblical flood. The Gavellis and the Morans would dance their deadly dance, and The Hole would swallow up the losers, no questions asked.
As I headed back to my car, the city was waking up, the sounds of life starting to bubble up from the cracks in the pavement. But The Hole remained asleep, dreaming its dark, twisted dreams. It was a place out of time, a relic, a ghostly echo of New York’s dirtiest secrets. And I was knee-deep in its muck, trying to stay afloat.
The first chapter of my day was coming to a close, and I knew the rest of the story was going to be written in blood and bullets.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 