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  • Kathleen Gill



After dinner, the conversation went something like this.

“There’s gonna be a full moon tomorrow morning, setting right before sunrise.  Conditions should be perfect for a shot I have in mind of the moon setting over the gulf, in twilight, up at Crystal River beach by the pier.  Wanna go with me?”  This is not really an invitation.  I want him to go with me – mostly because I’m a wimp when it comes to adventures in the dark by myself.  But he knows exactly what I mean, so I don’t need to be direct.

“It’s a long way out there,” he says, cleverly dodging the question.  “We’ll need to leave the house by about 5:30, out of bed by 5:00.”  That’s a strategy he’s had some success with – casually pointing out the flaws in my plan in the hope that I will realize my folly and withdraw the request.  Problem solved.  Back to his Castle rerun.

But I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck.  “We can leave at 6:00.  It only takes about 15 minutes to get to Fort Island Trail.  Maybe another 20 minutes out to the water.  And I’ll be quick once we get there.  I know the exact shot I’m looking for.”


“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“Maybe I’ll just see how I feel when I wake up.”  Check-mate.  No commitment, decision postponed.

As it turns out, it was all moot.  Heavy fog obscured both sun and moon at curtain time.  Instead, I went by myself to my favorite sunrise spot and found this treasure.  A low-lying backlit fog bank to my east, stained pink-orange by early morning sun, was spilling that soft light everywhere.   For the past several winters, I’ve been trying to capture what my mind sees when I look up at these lacy branches, limbs adorned with ball moss.  Maybe things work out better when you just go with the flow.


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