“Autumn Leaf & Ferns”

On February 6, 2023 By Mike U.In Photography64 Comments

I have a lot of images from Trout Lake in southwest Colorado, about an hour from where I live. Many of these images don’t feature the lake, such as this one of autumn ferns. The area is heavily forested, snuggled deep within the arms of several mountain peaks. In the summer, wild flowers explode in a profusion of color; in the fall, aspens glow a strident yellow that complements the deep greens of conifers and the cobalt blue sky.

On this autumn day in the late 1990s, my mom accompanied me. She enjoyed getting away from the farm whenever she could, and she loved nature drives and breathing fresh mountain air. We took the dirt road that circumscribes the lake and pulled over in a little clearing of ferns among tall pines and spruces. There were a few bright red amanita muscaria mushrooms still stubbornly clinging to life, and while my mom looked at these poisonous fungi (I’d warned her not to touch them), I set about photographing the ferns whose fronds had begun to turn yellow. On the ground nearby, a small leaf the color of arterial blood caught my eye, and I saw an opportunity to show my mom one of the standard composition guidelines of photography: the Rule of Thirds. Not quite a rule as much as a suggestion, the idea is to divide the frame into thirds both vertically and horizontally (like a tic tac toe grid). Placing the main subject on one of the places where these grid lines intersect—the power-points—generally results in a more pleasing image. As with any rule, there are plenty of exceptions. This rule is overused and can produce cliché images that lack depth and emotion, but sometimes the end result is indeed compelling.

I composed the image, placing the crimson leaf on a power-point and explained the theory as my mom looked through the viewfinder. When I got the slides back from the lab and showed her the resultant image on my lightbox, she could hardly contain her excitement. She adored this image and she felt as though she had played a part in its creation. And she was right: every time I look at this image, I’m reminded of her, just the two of us in the little clearing one autumn afternoon, experiencing nature and being glad to be alive. It may appear to be just another pretty picture, but it’s so much more than that. I was able to share my love for nature and photography with her that day, and part of her lives on in this image. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Few Haiku & Senryu (56)”

On January 28, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry62 Comments

(#331)

dusty stew pot
her memory lingers by
the cold hearth

…..

(#332)

a tiny sun
in this cold dark hell
golden suisen

…..

(#333)

strings of koto
from beyond the bamboo grove
my heart breaks again

…..

(#334)

don’t look at me, moon
I’m not who you think I am
dark night of the soul

…..

(#335)

from my window
the mountain; from the mountain
eternity

…..

(#336)

green silence
and the end of all things
sea of trees

(Note: A bit of a title change for this series. I’ve been writing senryu almost as long as haiku and I figured it was time to clarify that these little collections contain both. Haiku pertain to nature and seasons, while senryu address the human condition. The formats are virtually identical; the subject matter differs.)

“Pussy Willow Catkin on Twig”

On January 23, 2023 By Mike U.In Photography78 Comments

Trout Lake, near the small town of Telluride in southwestern Colorado, is my second-favorite spot on Planet Earth, just behind Heceta Head Lighthouse on the central Oregon Coast. I’ve posted a few images of the lake itself, snugly nestled in the laps of Sheep Mountain, Vermilion Peak, Golden Horn and Pilot Knob amid pine and spruce forests, aspens and a cornucopia of wild flowers. A dirt road circumnavigates the lake, wending its way closer to the peaks and through the woods and bogs. A narrow wooden bridge, which had fallen into disrepair the last time I was there, spans a creek halfway around the lake. It was here, near the collapsed bridge, while photographing elkslip and other wild flowers one summer evening in the late 1990s, that I noticed a lone pussy willow catkin perched on a twig.

I’ve always been enamored with these diminutive delights, tiny and soft and so aptly named (honestly, the term “catkin” is sort of giggle-inducing). There were no willows where I lived on the farm so I’d never had the opportunity to photograph these little guys until now. The light was quickly fading so I set to work. The compositional goal was to isolate the twig and catkin against the background by using a wide aperture setting to blur the background into a solid mass of color in order to make the subject stand out as much as possible. I wanted to express a little story with this image, too, a vignette of the early stages of life, its uphill battle to reach maturity, and the uncertainty that awaits all of us at the end. The catkin was placed on a power-point in the lower left, with the gentle upward arc of the twig leading across the frame to…what? What lies ahead? What of that sudden drop-off at the end of the twig? In life, we may think we have a plan, a goal for the future, but in reality we’re all flying blind. At any moment, our own personal twigs may end abruptly, plummeting us into oblivion. I envisioned the tiny catkin feeling trepidation at the beginning of its journey, leaning back in fear…perhaps steeling itself to perform a Naruto run to the end of the twig and take flight into the unknown. In this brief pause on the cusp of its decision, the air was utterly still, and not a sound came from the forest. Even the ever-present mosquitoes held their collective breaths as they awaited what was coming. I like to think the catkin was preparing itself, screwing up its courage, and calming itself in the cool air and verdant green silence of the woods. And then…

…it’s up to you to decide what happened next. I haven’t returned to this place in years. I hope the catkin’s journey was a happy one, and as brief as this blossom’s lifespan may have been in the grand scheme of things, its ethereal beauty fit right at home in the green silence of the forest, among elkslip, wild irises and columbines. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Few Haiku (55)”

On January 18, 2023January 18, 2023 By Mike U.In Poetry80 Comments

(#325)

to write is to breathe
and I am suffocating
in silence

…..

(#326)

speak again of joy
and the warmth of summer days
your lies are comforting

…..

(#327)

pond ice
stretched thin as hope
and equally deceptive

…..

(#328)

some write of joy
I write of experience
would they were the same

…..

(#329)

pardon my sorrow
and forgive my weeping soul
a poet’s lament

…..

(#330)

hope comes and goes
and lasts for but a season
winter snow

“Sandstone Formation & Tree”

On December 20, 2022 By Mike U.In Photography103 Comments

Lisbon Valley is a relatively nondescript region in southeast Utah near Canyonlands National Park. While its redrock sandstone formations don’t rival the majesty of those found in Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, it has its own hidden marvels, its own unique personality. In the late 1990s, I spotted this rock formation while exploring one late-autumn evening. I was intrigued by several aspects of this scene: the contrasting, opposing oranges and blues; the split-personality of the formation, with half in bright sunset light and the other half in dark shadows; and the looming presence of the formation compared to the diminutive form of the lone juniper tree on the left. And above all, a contemplative stillness. Some might say there’s a David-and-Goliath theme here, a sense of immutable power being challenged by stalwart–if fragile–determination. However, I see something else here…a sense of sorrow, a reaching-out from weakness to strength as the tree casts its shadow on the base of the tower in supplication, as if seeking consolation. A sense of loneliness and isolation. I identify with that juniper tree. I feel deeply that sense of yearning to be a part of something but always finding myself standing on the outside, looking in. Try as it might, the closest that tree will ever come to connecting with that rock is by casting its shadow upon it once a day just before the cold night falls. Such is life in the desert; such is life in this world. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Few Haiku (54)”

On December 18, 2022December 18, 2022 By Mike U.In Poetry59 Comments

(#319)

the trees believed once
before they lost everything
the lies of winter

…..

(#320)

for whom do you seek
there’s no one here but me
long night moon

…..

(#321)

fetch the sickle moon
let us harvest ice blossoms
winter star fields

…..

(#322)

sorrows of autumn
kindle the warmth of winter
the blazing hearth

…..

(#323)

this bitter cold
reminds me I’m alive
and why I wish I weren’t

…..

(#324)

in each flake
a brief eternity
the grief of winter

“A Few Haiku (53)”

On December 16, 2022 By Mike U.In Poetry42 Comments

(#313)

my world begins and ends
at my window
lonely winter moon

…..

(#314)

blood and feathers
the sky falls into my palm
a young boy’s shame

…..

(#315)

calligraphy of sorrow
etched on her wrists
autumn’s demise

…..

(#316)

fast asleep
in the heron’s belly
the stilt hut

…..

(#317)

one cup one bowl one spoon
and a thousand silences
winter’s bitter feast

…..

(#318)

when it’s time to laugh
I will laugh; until then
let me cry

“Blue Lupine & Water Droplets”

On December 12, 2022 By Mike U.In Photography59 Comments

There’s nothing quite like a country rain. In the region where I live, summer thunderstorms bring the arid landscape to life as everything seems to shimmer and glow, and the scents of wet sage, pine, juniper, earth and fresh air assault one’s olfactory sense like a heady brew. In this image from the late 1990s, this blue lupine had found refuge beneath a pinyon pine and rode out the storm relatively unscathed, unlike many others that were damaged by the intensity of falling rain and were left standing among tatters of petals. Macro-photography is fascinating, especially when exploring the hidden inner worlds of wild flowers, and this lupine made a perfect subject with its brilliant hues and clinging raindrops. I’m left with the impression of each individual blossom craning skyward, open-mouthed, in an attempt to drink in as much rain as possible. In an area that receives around ten inches of precipitation annually, summer rains are vital for the environment to remain balanced (and also pose the threat of wildfires). The beauty of wild flowers is exquisite and all-too-brief, so capturing these examples of nature’s haiku was a priority for me during my days as a nature photographer. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)

“A Few Haiku (52)”

On December 10, 2022 By Mike U.In Poetry61 Comments

(#307)

dry gourds rattle
among cautious deer hooves
the forgotten garden

…..

(#308)

sing loudly, moon
for my heart is deaf
and my soul yearns to dance

…..

(#309)

there is peace
in the aftermath of tears
the joy of sorrow

…..

(#310)

let go the acorn
trust the earth
to keep its promise

…..

(#311)

an eternity
from your eyes to my heart
a tear’s journey

…..

(#312)

dull silence
a stone flung at a post
a summer’s field in winter

“A Few Haiku (51)”

On December 8, 2022 By Mike U.In Poetry48 Comments

(#301)

in sleeping woods
the scent of burning bark
the fragrance of memories

…..

(#302)

the tilt of her head
as she looked at me
the burned bridge

…..

(#303)

cairns of river stones
lest the stream forget
its sorrow

…..

(#304)

these old coins
both priceless and worthless
a wealth of emptiness

…..

(#305)

swift, swift the stream
and all it sweeps away
the torrent of the years

…..

(#306)

among the rushes
the blur of silent koi
and dreams of oblivion

Silent Pariah

Tag: nature