This is a magical time of day…
The sun is almost down, as the last of it's golden light varnishes the tops of the sycamores along the river. The stream corridor, between the tree-lined banks, is in cool shadow and the water is the color of old jade.
I love this period, what the old folks used to call the gloaming…when the day softens and swallows dip over the pools as the last of the vultures come straggling home, sailing high and at ease in the blue sky, wheeling as they drop altitude, like black-robed skaters carving figure-8s in ice—swift and sure in their skill, and perfectly on target when they reach and glide into the dense green canopy to their roost. You never see them flare or flinch, or scarcely slow down once they enter the woods. Huge though they are, they fly with no uncertain grace, the winged masters of the cooling air.
As a photographer, I adore this gloaming light—warm, soft, and angled in from the side, giving a wonderful glow and dimensionality to whatever it touches…fence post, red-winged blackbird, a single umbel of Queen Anne's Lace. Light which paints everything with it magic.
The sweet light of the gloaming….