The year's longest day passed as it always has — modestly, too early.
These clouds trundled into view just minutes before a downpour — the rainfall was hard but short, and the lakeshore went cool and calm without another thundery protest.
Set at an awkward angle, or one seat removed, from the nearest window on each of four flights taken last week, I shot only six photographs.
That may have been just as well, since reading to orange evening light pouring into the plane impressed as much as a color print. And, too, the most poignant sights were on terra firma and anthropogenic — very little else tugs at a man's heart like a woman's gossamer shawl.
Pro: Having reached one year of age this past May, the cats have become accustomed to habits and patterns that articulate personalities.
Con: Mac responds to dawn's light by calling out. Loudly.
Pro: I no longer worry about sleeping through my alarm.
For once, once in thirteen years, that damned long traffic light at Lorain and Canterbury was not a second too brief.
Project completion may have been set back a season — from spring to summer — but the ruggedness of the northeast corner of the nearby construction site is deceptive. Traveling on the road running perpendicularly to my office building (visible in the lower right-hand third of the photograph), I was surprised to see the frontispiece for a new Target store, there at the edge of a broad, marked parking lot. Will business be as swift to return?
So rare, so familiar.
There they were, sessile, and somehow last year's tulips eluded me.
All right: I mustered a little more stealth, and profitably stalked a herd of spring's heralds two days ago.
This one, I think, marked my approach.
It was the fog slung across the valley that I meant to photograph when I walked onto my balcony this morning.
Three minutes later, the sun had illuminated the altocumulus and stratus interposing, and I dutifully went back outside.
Shortly afterward, all went grey. Twelve hours later the sky was up to something again. I took to the balcony.
