Eagle and four crows

Through the windshield while I waited in a line of cars for the light to change.

Tree skeleton, holding a dozen or so yellow leaves still. And the birds.

And then the light changed and the car behind revved his motor. Get a move on!

Reaching for the moon

In the summer, I love evergreens, so cooling, so light-absorbent. In wintertime, I am enthralled by the empty branches of deciduous trees, sometimes festooned by lichens, sometimes painted with green mosses, always individual, always graphic against the sky.

This one wears green and yellowish moss.

The moon is almost within reach.

And in early spring, I marvel at the sight of the shiny new, neon-green leaves. It won't be long now; buds are bursting out all over.

Another Skywatch post.

Tree bones

One thing I will miss with the coming of spring ...

Tree skeleton against the sky

Leafed out, they're beautiful, but bare naked, they show their complete individuality, their own unique growth patterns, life histories, scars.

A Skywatch post.

Midwinter browns

More Blackie Spit photos. We left the river bank and walked back to the car over the fields and old farm country. It's very quiet at this time of year; all those rackety summer critters are sleeping under bark or duff, the shouting blackbirds have gone south; among the human Spit visitors, even the children walk along sedately, encased in puffy down jackets. And the weeds and trees are quiet in their way, toning down their riotous summer colours to cool browns.

Two berries. I don't know what they are. There were no others for comparison.

Dried weeds against an old fence

We sat on a bench by the path to rest Laurie's back. I entertained myself taking partial photos of the tree right in front of us, to build a composite once I got home. An alder, still carrying a few old leaves and its mature cones.

Unusually-shaped branches and buds. I don't know what this is. There were three in a row, as if planted.

Zooming in on those stubby finger-like branches. And two dead leaves.

A rotting log, with orange fungus. I didn't even see the spider until I got home. Can you find her and her web?

Just a dead branch. I was intrigued by the pattern of the thick bark. The whole branch is about 6 inches across at the widest point.

I moved to the far side of this branch, to get a photo with the sun on it, although the bark was rather bashed and broken.

Laurie sees a face here; a fish, he says. I see a skinny moose who's lost his rack. He's very sad about it.

Grasses protected from the winds by a tall fence.

Teasels against the sky.

And they're promising us snow for the morning! A few hours of whiteness, until the rain starts again. Back to grey.

Wordless - Tree skeleton

Unironed winter lace

Squiggles upon squiggles ...

The skeleton of a tree with the jitters.

A Skywatch post.

Blazing farewell to 2010

The last day of 2010, the sun put on a show for us. At dawn, it set the clouds on fire:

7:56 AM. Sunrise is at 8:07.

In the early afternoon, we drove in to New Westminster to check out the plantings along the Quay. It was chilly, barely above freezing (it had gone down to -6 overnight) and the air was clear. It seemed like nothing was between us and the sun. And it was outdoing itself, making up for all those dull days last week; I had to dig out my darkest sunglasses. On the quay, what with the sun glaring at the glassy river, the big-windowed offices and hotels, and all the white railings, my camera rebelled. "Too much light!" it said, blinking madly at me. I closed down the aperture, sped it up to its maximum, forgot to reduce the ISO. The camera kept blinking. Any photos I took turned out mostly white.

Laurie's camera was a bit more co-operative, but not much.

There's always a way around difficulties. We could take advantage of those shining windows, and take photos of the view in the reflections:

In a dusty window, a "vintage" photo of the river and the Alex Fraser bridge.

Coming around a building, I happened to look right up at the sun. Even through my sunglasses, it blinded me for a while. But for that instant, I saw a rainbow-like halo around it. Ice crystals.
This photo, taken through a corner office window, shows the halo, as I had seen it.

Logs and barges on the far shore, and the glare off the water.

I found a shadowy window, and got a photo of the mountains, the Port Mann, and the Skytrain bridges.

Paddlewheeler.

Another solution was to zoom 'way in, take macros, which reduces the light entering the lens.

Miniature cotoneaster.

Moss

White ornamental cabbage. Looks better close-up than at normal distances.

Or find bits of shade and then zoom in:

Lichen on a black tree trunk. 

Pansy under a hedge.

I even tried taking a photo through my sunglasses:

Ornamental cabbages and kale.

Laurie took photos of the reflections underneath the promenade:

White railings and the blackness under the pilings.

On the way back, now close to sunset, the light was dimming, finally. And with our backs to the sun, we didn't even have to squint!

Viburnum. I love how it flowers at New Year's every year! No leaves, just the flowers and buds.

Unidentified tree that keeps its leaves, long and skinny and curly, all winter.

We went up to 6th and 6th for tea. It was a relief to drive into the dark basement parking lot. When we left, just before 5, night was falling. Beautiful blue night!

A Skywatch post.

Trees in their bones

I love bare trees. Branches under a blanket of snow convey a hushed silence, calm sleepiness; springtime trees covered with yellow-green leaf buds whisk away the heaviness of winter; summer greenery just sings; and the fall yellows and reds bring hope; after this brief cool spell, the sun will come back.

Bare winter trees give, to me at least, the feeling of strength, of endurance, of patience; "Never fear," they say, "we have sturdy bones; we'll outlast the ice."

We took these photos at Centennial Park last week. The pond was still liquid but the wind was vicious.

Catching the wintry sun

Reflection in a puddle, with discarded leaves.

Reflection

Duck pond, no ducks.

Reflection

Moon across the Bay. No branches here.

Howling at the moon

Last light

Tree lace

Ever since I first had a camera in my hands, I've been trying to take photos of leafless trees. I love their shapes, the arrangements of branches, twigs and buds, the nests revealed in the grey light of winter. But most of the photos turn out as mere graphs of a tree; the soul has fled.

I try again, and again. Maybe someday I'll capture what I see.

These are a couple of my recent attempts. Half-way there, maybe.

Like the edge of an old-fashioned doily, the ones grandma had on her occasional tables.

Cold nest