Tag: reflections

Glacial Echoes: Dryden Lake Park’s Mirror-Calm Morning in Upstate New York

Morning clouds hang over Dryden Lake as hills kindle first color; reflections hold breath while a lone walker reads the valley’s glacial and human-written past.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

He came to the water before the people woke, the road a still ribbon of cold tar snaking beneath the low hills. Mattocks of cloud hung over the valley and the lake took in the sky like a mirror dropped yet not broken. The trees were beginning to color. A patient fire working from within the leaves. He parked where the grass ran down to the shore and stood a long while without moving. Birds made small sounds in the reeds. Somewhere a single truck labored up the grade and was gone. The surface held the hills with a steadiness the hills themselves could not keep. He thought how the quiet of a place can be the loudest thing it owns.

He went along the margin along the damp sedges where old drift lay silvered and light as bones. A drowned trunk angled from the shallows. The lake was old in the way of things made by ice and time. A kettle in the outwash of the last glacier, some men said, a bowl left when the buried ice eased away. He pictured the ice receding into the valley heads, the meltwaters choked with gravel, a hand larger than memory scribing the floor of this country. The earth never told it plain but the lay of it was witness enough. Across later centuries men cribbed a dam across the outlet and drew the water to a shape that pleased them and served their work.

A trail ran the length of the water on the old rail bed. The ties were long gone and the iron and cinders buried under years of leaf fall and gravel. He had walked it as a boy beside his father and now he walked it alone. Benches stood at half-mile intervals like waystations in a country of small pilgrimages. The signs told what once was here and what remains. They had renamed the path for a townman who argued it into being after the railroad had passed from the world and the right-of-way grew up with sumac and rumor. It was an easy trail and he carried nothing. His hands hung at his sides as if the day might place something in them when it was ready.

In another era the lake was a workshop. Men whipsawed timber in the wet air and fed small mills with the grove’s dark boards. Winter flowed over the flats, and they built icehouses and set the blocks within like blue stone, an industry that died when cold could be called from a switch. The hills have learned to forget the noise of it, though on certain mornings the fog takes a shape and you could believe rising from the ponded sawdust and the lading of sleds. He thought of the labor of those gone hands and of how work is a scripture every place keeps in its own tongue.

Before any of that, the ground here was a summer camp. People came with the season and went with it, laying their fires in the lee of the knoll and taking fish where the cattails thin. He could feel them in the open places, not as ghosts but as the first understanding the land ever had of itself. The words used for them now are museum words, yet the wind still crosses the water as it did and empties the same smell of iron and leaf into the lungs of whoever stands to breathe.

The town took its name from a poet long dead, a scholar’s choosing in the years after the war for independence when this tract of country was parceled out to soldiers of that same war. Virgil lay to the east as if they were shelving Latin across a map. The creek that bears that name threads the villages and finds Fall Creek at Freeville, and the combined waters go their own slow way toward Cayuga where the glacial hand scooped deeper yet. He said these names under his breath and they tasted of chalk and river stone.

A kingfisher rattled across the cove. The fish rose in rings that spread and vanished like time seen from above. Out on the water an old man pushed a skiff with an electric motor that hummed like a trapped bee, for the lake allows no gas engines now. The wildlife area ran around the shore in a ragged collar of field and wetland and alder, near two hundred acres under the state’s keeping, and the lake itself a little over a hundred. He watched the man aim for the lily line and thought how rules arise from the wish that a thing endure, though nothing does. Still we make the rules and we keep them as if the earth were listening.

Wind came down the slope with a smell of rain. He turned back and the hills lay again in the water, entire, and for a moment he could not tell which world had claim to the other. He thought of the rails pulled up and the mills gone to weeds and of the icehouses fallen into their own shadows and he thought of the people before all that and of the long winter pressing its thumb into the land and lifting it away. He thought of his father walking the rail bed beside him a lifetime ago and saying nothing. There are places where the past crowds close and will not be argued with. He stood until the first drops dimpled the surface and the reflection shattered and reformed. A train no longer runs here. The only sound was the soft percussion of rain on water and the slow turning of the earth beneath both. He put his hand to the damp trunk of a fallen tree and felt the grain and the coolness and the old patient labor of rot. Then he went up from the reeds, his pockets full of acorns, and out to the road where his truck waited and the day, austere and sufficient, came along with him.

References

Geological History and Glacial Formation of the Finger Lakes

Jim Schug Trail

The Dryden Lake area in the 19th century

Indian Campsite on west side of Dryden Lake

Dryden New York (wikipedia)

Dryden Lake (New York State DEC)

Geohydrology, Water Quality, and Simulation of Groundwater Flow in the Stratified-Drift Aquifer System in Virgil Creek and Dryden Lake Valleys, Town of Dryden, Tompkins County, New York

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Autumn Reflections: The Majesty of Acer Rubrum

On a serene autumn afternoon by Beebe Lake, a solitary red maple stood out against the backdrop, showcasing its vibrant colors and resilience, symbolizing autumn’s fleeting beauty.

MichaelStephenWills25 Comments

It was one of those serene autumn afternoons that linger in memory, the kind where the sky seems impossibly clear, the air crisp and gently scented with fallen leaves. I stood at the edge of Beebe Lake, my gaze first drawn to the textured concrete dam holding back the water, its weathered facade contrasting sharply with the soft reflections shimmering across the lake’s calm surface. Beyond, the wooded hillside rose gently, a tapestry woven with the warm hues of autumn—golds, greens, oranges, and reds mingling like brush strokes on a canvas.


An October Glory, turning before all others

Yet amidst this collective beauty, one tree captured my attention, singular in its brilliance—a solitary red maple standing proudly on the lakeshore. Its leaves had turned a vivid crimson, blazing brightly as though defying the muted earth tones surrounding it. Even from a distance, framed and partially obscured by larger trees, its vibrant reflection cast a fiery echo on the water, rippling softly in the afternoon breeze.

The maple, Acer Rubrum, seemed perfectly at home here, thriving robustly at the water’s edge. I remembered reading how adaptable red maples are, able to flourish in conditions ranging from dry uplands to swampy shores. This spot, near the edge of the tranquil Beebe Lake, seemed to showcase its resilient character perfectly.

Up close, the maple’s glow was even more striking. Its leaves cascaded in fiery clusters, hues deepening from bright scarlet at the tips to a darker maroon closer to the branches. This dramatic gradient seemed symbolic of autumn itself—beautiful, fleeting, and subtly tinged with the melancholy reminder of winter’s approach.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) to tolerant of diverse conditions, making it a perfect choice for this spot on the short of Beebe Lake.

A memory surfaced of early spring in the Finger Lakes region, a time when maples, including this red maple, generously share their sap. Though not traditionally tapped like its sweeter cousin, the sugar maple, this species’ sap can indeed be boiled down into syrup, a surprising sweetness hidden within its sturdy trunk. Standing in its shadow, imagining those early spring days, it seemed astonishing that the same tree could offer both the delicate sweetness of syrup and the fierce beauty now on display.

Curiously, the transformation of the tree appeared methodical yet whimsical—it changed colors from the top down, its upper branches already bare, exposing slender twigs pointing skyward. Like an artist carefully removing layers to reveal something deeper beneath, the maple unveiled its upper bare bones first, as though reminding observers of the quiet strength supporting its autumn splendor.

This Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) turns from the top down and has already bare for most top branches.

As I lingered, taking in this turning tree, joggers passed by along the path, their rhythmic footsteps a gentle percussion beneath the rustling leaves. Briefly, they glanced toward the vivid maple, perhaps drawn, like me, by its striking contrast to the surrounding foliage. It felt like we shared a secret admiration for this singular tree, recognizing in it a quiet assertion of individuality amidst conformity.

Eventually, I viewed the maple once more from afar, framed now by broader sweeps of branches and leaves, partially obscured but no less vivid. Through layers of leaves and dappled sunlight, it glowed like a distant flame, a beacon that seemed to encapsulate the entire mood of the season—warm yet cool, bright yet transient.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) is the first to flower in spring and the first to turn in autumn.

Walking away, the image of that maple lingered, its reflection shimmering gently in the afternoon sun, a moment suspended between summer’s lush vitality and winter’s bare stillness. Beebe Lake had offered scenic beauty, a quiet meditation, a reflection mirrored not only on its tranquil surface but in the heart of an observer captivated by a single tree’s fleeting glory.

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Blood Moon Reflections: Science, Illusion, and Shared Awe Under the Lunar Eclipse

We gather on the balcony as a total lunar eclipse turns the moon to copper—science, illusion, and shared wonder braid a night of luminous change.

MichaelStephenWills31 Comments

Moonrise

On certain evenings we gather on our Cocoa Beach, Florida east-facing beach-side balcony simply to watch the day undo itself—sunset staining the western sky while, behind us, something quieter begins. On Sunday, January 20, 2019, the quiet had a name: a total lunar eclipse. I’d checked the online charts earlier—moonrise time, azimuth, the patient geometry of the heavens laid out in numbers—and set our chairs faced the anticipated spectacle.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery


The light went a little pewter, as it does when the sun slides offstage and the world inhales. Out on the water a cruise ship shouldered south, a floating city of windows that, under ordinary sunsets, catch fire pane by pane. I looked up too late for the blaze and felt that small pang one gets for the thing almost seen. Still, the ship kept gliding, a bright punctuation mark traveling our skyline.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

Then the moon appeared—first as a bruise-colored coin pressed against a bank of cloud, then as itself, pale and whole, rising as if pulled on a cord. Photographs can play a trick here: place a ship under a full moon and, with the right lens, the vessel swells to improbable grandeur while the moon looks like a modest ornament. Our eyes know better. The ship is huge but near; the moon is unimaginably larger, only far. Distance humbles everything.

It’s a fine parlor truth that every lunar eclipse requires a full moon. There’s a steadiness in that—that the earth, playing the rare importance of middle child, can only cast its shadow when the moon has come fully into its own. The reverse, of course, is not guaranteed. Most full moons rise and go about their business, silvering roofs and quieting dogs, without ever tasting the earth’s shadow. Tonight would be different.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

The Riddle of Size

Before the darkness advanced, the old riddle of size made its entrance. Low on the horizon, the moon seemed suddenly intimate, big enough to pocket the ship and still have room for the lighthouse. We call it an illusion, but the word hardly captures the tenderness of it: how the mind, seeing that round face near our familiar trees and eaves, feels the moon to be part of our belongings. Angular diameter stays stubbornly constant; affection does not. The experiment is easy enough—choose a pebble that covers the low moon at arm’s length, then try again when the moon is high. The same pebble hides it perfectly. What changes is not the moon, but the story our senses tell.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

Clouds raveled and the disk lifted, gathering brightness. As the earth’s umbra slid across that worn, luminous stone, the color shifted from pearl to rust, then to the old red of clay amphorae. People love the names—Super, Wolf, Blood—as if the moon had stepped onto a carnival midway. I prefer the quieter facts: sun, earth, moon aligned; light refracted through air; the planet itself briefly confessed in velvet shadow. It felt less like spectacle than like a family resemblance revealed by candlelight.

Eclipse

Much later, around us, the little neighborhood chorus noticed. A conversation stalled mid-sentence; the unspooled hush you hear at a concert just before the bow draws its first note came and settled on the patio. Even the ocean seemed to restrain itself, waves taking smaller breaths. The cruise ship had long since slid behind the curvature of our seeing.

We kept watching. A lunar eclipse is an exercise in patience: everything happens slowly enough to be felt, quickly enough to refuse boredom. Shadows are honest about their edges. When the moon wore its deepest copper, I thought of ancient nights and imaginations unlit by anything but fire, how dependable cycles must have seemed like messages and how—standing there, spine pricked by a familiar old awe—I could not entirely disagree. It was not fear, but kinship: the sense that we are included in the machinery, not merely spectators.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

When the light returned, it did so from one margin, like dawn rehearsed on a smaller stage. The coin brightened by degrees, and the old face we know reappeared—craters and mares soft as thumbprints. The illusion of size faded as the moon climbed, and the experiment with the pebble proved itself yet again. Even so, I felt the tug of that earlier enchantment, the way a child misses a dream just after waking. The mind keeps two ledgers: one for what is measured, one for what is felt. Tonight both were full.

Eventually we retired. Chairs nested. Doors clicked. In the kitchen, glasses chimed in the sink. But the moon kept on, white and durable, its borrowed light restored. Somewhere out there the ship’s passengers drifted to their cabins, stories in their pockets about the night the world itself cast a shadow, and how the ocean looked briefly like copper under a patient star.

Later, when I wrote down the times and the few facts I could trust to memory, I realized the real record was not the measurements but the company: our leaning back, the shared breath, the soft astonishment that comes when something vast moves at a human pace. The eclipse ended; the evening did not. That, too, felt like a kind of alignment—ours with one another, our small chairs with a very large sky.

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Healing Through Nature in Sapsucker Woods

An autumn walk for healing, resilience, and gratitude.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

On this autumn Sapsucker Woods afternoon, the world seems crafted to soothe. Sunlight filters through the canopy, setting leaves ablaze in rich reds, golden yellows, and softened greens, the seasonal palette reflecting nature’s grand finale. Today, the woods are a sanctuary for healing, a space where steps are measured not by speed but by strength, each one a testament to resilience.

Pam stands before the wide, outstretched wings painted on the wall at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, wings so vast that they dwarf her. She smiles, resting against her hiking poles, the Condor wings an emblem of a journey toward reclaiming freedom. Her recent hip replacement surgery has given her back this independence, a reminder that recovery is not just about physical mending, but about lifting the spirit to soar once again.

The trail unfolds gently, bordered by cattails and still waters that mirror the sky—a bright blue canvas mottled with soft clouds drifting in and out of the reflections. Fallen leaves float upon the pond’s surface, creating patches of color that seem suspended between water and sky. Nearby, lily pads, green stepping stones over shadowed depths, their edges lit by glittering sunlight. Geese glide by, unbothered, embodying a calm flowing outward, wrapping the whole scene in peace.

Each step Pam takes is deliberate, accompanied by the steady rhythm of her poles striking the ground. It is the kind of walk that invites contemplation, where time slows, and even the smallest detail—a single yellow leaf spiraling down, a ripple breaking the pond’s surface—feels like an invitation to pause and breathe. She moves from the open path toward a shaded arbor, draped with twisting vines. The vines climb upward, winding around the wooden beams, their leaves creating a soft veil that frames her view of the water beyond. Through this leafy curtain, she gazes upon the pond, where autumn’s reflection glows, offering a quiet moment of solitude, of healing drawn from nature’s persistence.

Just beyond, a bare tree stands, its trunk hollowed by years, its exposed wood testament to the life that has passed through it. In its decay, it offers a home to the creatures of the marsh, a structure among reeds and grasses that sway with the wind. The tree reminds Pam of her own journey, how resilience is often found in adapting, in letting time and life shape you.

At last, we reach a bench overlooking the pond, a perfect place to rest and reflect. She settles in, feeling the quiet thrill of accomplishment. The woods are still, save for the sound of a breeze rustling the reeds and the occasional bird song piercing the silence. In this moment, with the vast sky overhead and the world reflected below, she feels a profound sense of gratitude—not only for the beauty around her but for the strength within her. Sapsucker Woods are a personal cathedral, a space where nature and recovery intertwine, offering peace in every step, in every breath.

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Capturing Fall’s Beauty: A Journey of Healing

During a reflective walk, the author parallels the beauty of autumn his wife’s healing journey post-surgery, celebrating transformation and resilience.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

As I waited for Pam to finish her 30-minute physical therapy session at the Northeast Ithaca medical complex, I decided to capture moments of the fall season through my camera lens while walking. There’s something about this time of year—the crispness in the air, the vibrancy of the colors—that invites reflection, especially with the significance of Pam’s recovery following her hip replacement. These moments, both large and small, weave together to form the tapestry of life, and today, I felt a strong pull to observe, to pause, and to appreciate.

The first scene that caught my eye was a delicate scattering of maple leaves over smooth, weather-worn stones. The contrast between the rigid rocks and the soft, decaying leaves reminded me of life’s cyclical nature. The bright red and pale pink hues of the leaves, now beginning their slow decomposition, seemed to symbolize the passage of time—how even in their decay, they added beauty and texture to the scene. The leaves, having served their purpose on the tree, now danced with the wind, finding a new purpose in creating a natural mosaic. Much like how Pam’s healing journey is both the end of one struggle and the beginning of a new phase in our lives.

As I continued walking, I came upon a maple tree, standing tall with its branches adorned in fiery reds. The vibrancy of the foliage against the sky reminded me of strength in adversity. The tree had begun its seasonal transformation, shedding its leaves as it prepares for winter—a time of rest before the renewal of spring. I thought about how Pam, too, is in a season of transformation. Her body is adjusting, healing from the surgery, and preparing for new movement and freedom that will come in time. Watching the wind gently tug at the leaves, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for her resilience.

Nearby, a slender birch tree stood out, its bark a striking white against the greens and golds of early fall. The birch, with its smooth and peeling bark, fascinates me. It exudes a quiet elegance, standing firm and graceful; a symbol of quiet endurance, a steadfast presence amidst the ever-changing landscape. Much like the birch, Pam has weathered the storm of surgery with grace, moving through pain and discomfort with a quiet determination. The sound of a gentle stream nearby only added to the serenity of the scene, offering a soft, meditative backdrop to my thoughts.

Further along, I encountered clusters of green crabapples hanging heavily from a tree. Their small, round forms were imperfect, dotted with blemishes and signs of wear, yet there was beauty in their abundance. These fruits, while not perfect, are a testament to the tree’s efforts throughout the year, a reminder that growth and effort often result in the imperfect. Pam’s recovery isn’t without its challenges, but each step, each small victory, is a testament to her effort and determination. The crabapples reminded me that perfection is not the goal—progress and perseverance are.

On another tree, I found its branches laden with bright red berries, their glossy surfaces shining in the light. These berries, hanging so densely, added a sense of richness to the landscape, a vibrant contrast to the yellowing leaves of nearby trees. In many cultures, red berries symbolize vitality and protection, and in this moment, I thought of Pam’s vitality, her strength to heal and return to her daily life. The image of the berries will always remind me of this chapter of her recovery—a time where her strength was most evident.

As my walk continued, I marveled at another maple tree, its colors starting to fade into yellows and oranges, the leaves slowly dropping to the ground. The fallen leaves created a soft blanket around the tree, a reminder that letting go is a natural part of life. We often hold on to things, ideas, or even pain, long after they have served their purpose. Watching these leaves fall, I thought about Pam letting go of the pain and limitations she’s carried for months. Her body, much like this tree, is learning to release, to move forward.

On the ground, I noticed a close-up of more fallen leaves, these ones touched with both vibrant and fading hues, each in a different stage of its journey. Together, they formed a beautiful, textured layer over the soil, offering nutrients to the earth below. Even in their end, they contribute to new life. It struck me that even in difficult times, there is always a sense of renewal and growth. Pam’s healing is part of a larger cycle—one of renewal and transformation.

The final images of my walk were close-ups of a tree trunk covered in moss and lichen, and then the cones of a towering spruce tree. The moss, a soft green against the rough bark, seemed like nature’s way of nurturing the tree, offering protection and a touch of life in an otherwise harsh world. The cones, hanging in abundance from the spruce, signified a sense of continuity, of life moving forward even as the seasons change.

As I made my way, I realized this walk had been a meditation on Pam’s recovery, on the beauty of change, on the lessons nature offers in every season. Just as the trees prepare for winter and eventual rebirth, Pam too is in a season of healing, and I am grateful for every step she takes toward renewal.

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Ode to a January Sunrise at Cocoa Beach

Awake to the radiant grace of dawn, where golden light adorns the sky and the ocean reflects its splendor. Witness the serene dance of nature in a peaceful, inspiring January sunrise at Cocoa Beach.

MichaelStephenWills6 Comments

Awake, my soul, to morning’s radiant grace, as dawn’s first light adorns the sky’s embrace. Behold the scene where heaven meets the sea, a tapestry of hues, divinely free.

The eastern sky ignites with golden fire, each ray a herald of the sun’s desire. In softest pinks and boldest crimsons cast, the night retreats, and day arrives at last.

The ocean, kissed by dawn’s ethereal light, reflects the splendor of the coming sight. Waves gently lap upon the sandy shore; their whispered secrets speak of days of yore.

The palm trees sway in rhythmic, gentle dance, their silhouettes in morning’s light enhance. A peaceful stillness wraps the world in awe, as nature’s beauty strikes the heart with awe.

The scattered clouds, with edges tinged in gold, Frame the horizon as the day unfolds. They drift like dreams upon the waking breeze, in harmony with rustling leaves of trees.

And as the sun ascends its royal throne, Its warmth and light through every vein is known. A new day born, with promise in its wake, invites the heart to rise and dreams to take.

Imagine, seagulls soar on wings of pure delight, their cries a chorus to the morning’s light. They glide and dive with effortless grace, their freedom echoes in this sacred space.

On distant sands, the footprints of the few mark early risers greeting morning’s hue. Their presence, fleeting, soon to be erased, by tides that sweep the shore in gentle haste.

Oh, glorious dawn, thy beauty so profound, Inspire the soul where peace and love abound. Let hearts be lifted by thy gentle hand, to cherish all that’s wondrous in this land.

For in this moment, all the world is still, the chaos of the night’s dark dreams to kill. A symphony of light and life begins, as morning’s joy through every fiber sings.

So let us honor this celestial show, where sky and sea in radiant colors glow. In silent reverence, we stand and gaze, at dawn’s first light, and marvel at its blaze.

Awake, my soul, and bask in morning’s gleam, embrace the beauty of this waking dream. For in the sunrise, hope and peace reside, a timeless gift the heavens do provide.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Cocoa Beach Dawn

In January 2024, I captured the tranquil beauty of Cocoa Beach at dawn, embracing the fleeting moments of peace and natural wonders.

MichaelStephenWills2 Comments

The first blush of morning caresses the horizon, the palette of colors unfurling across the sky like a softly whispered promise of the day ahead. The soft pinks and blues deepen, brushing the clouds with strokes of lavender and orange, as the sun peeks just above the watery edge of the world. Today, I find myself strolling along Cocoa Beach, capturing the tender moments of dawn breaking over this tranquil Florida beachscape in early January 2024.

Each step I take along the sandy shores brings a new perspective, a new detail, revealed in the emerging light. To my right, a lone beach house sits nestled behind a veil of sea oats and palmettos, the sky behind it a canvas of warming hues. The house seems to slumber still, its windows reflecting the first golden rays of the sun. This dwelling, isolated and serene, hints at the countless summers of laughter and salty air, and the quiet winters of introspective solitude.

The sun disk breaks the horizon, visible through the clouds. Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida. The Space Coast.
The sun disk breaks the horizon, visible through the clouds. Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida. The Space Coast.
The sun disk breaks the horizon, visible through the clouds. Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida. The Space Coast.
Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida. On the Space Coast
Dune sunflower (Helianthus debilis) on the path to our condo. Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida. On the Space Coast.

As the morning progresses, the sun asserts itself, climbing higher and burning off the last vestiges of night. I point my camera towards the ocean, capturing the waves as they roll in with rhythmic persistence. The sea is a creature of profound mystery in these early hours, its surface a moving mirror that catches the fire of the sunrise and dances with light. Each wave is a note in an aquatic symphony, played just for those who are awake to hear it.

Turning my gaze down, I focus on the smaller, often overlooked inhabitants of the beach. A single flower, a stubborn and resilient dune sunflower, stands boldly above the sands. It’s an unexpected sight—this splash of vibrant yellow against the muted earth tones of the sandy beach. The flower turns its face towards the sun, basking in the glow, thriving in its own patch of the world. It’s a poignant reminder of the tenacity of life, of nature’s relentless pursuit of existence against the odds.

The beauty of Cocoa Beach at dawn is not just in its sweeping vistas or the dramatic play of light and shadow. It’s also in these small, intimate encounters: the texture of the sand, the whisper of the grass, the solitary bloom. Each element is a brushstroke in a larger picture, a note in a grander melody. As I walk, my feet leave temporary impressions on the wet sand, soon to be erased by the incoming tide. It feels symbolic, this transient mark-making, reflective of the fleeting nature of life and the enduring beauty of the world around us.

Cocoa Beach this morning is a place of peace and contemplation. As I capture these moments with my camera, I am also capturing them in my heart, storing them as a balm for busier, noisier days. The photographs will speak of quiet and calm, of the soft hush of dawn, and the gentle awakening of the earth. They will tell of a morning when the world seemed to pause, just for a moment, to revel in the simplicity and beauty of another beginning.

As the sun climbs higher, its light becomes too harsh for the soft magic of dawn photography. I pack up my camera, my heart full of the morning’s calm. The beach is waking up now, the first joggers and dog walkers appearing, their morning routines intersecting with the tail end of my photographic journey. I leave Cocoa Beach carrying the quiet joy of the morning, a joy found in the dance of light on water, in the solitude of a beach house, and in the vibrant defiance of a sunflower. Dawn here is not just a time, it’s an experience—a delicate, powerful reminder of the world’s wonders, witnessed at the edge of the day.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills