A Silent Unfolding

He arrives at the entrance to the beach during day’s first twilight,
And, as occurs on occasion, the old man stops dead in his tracks
And plants the base of his surf fishing rod in the sand
While he beholds the majesty of the unfolding scene before him.
The sun is still a few degrees below the horizon, 
Yet the sky and the calm sea glow with early gold,
And night’s reign in the west begins to fade.
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He lifts his rod and kicks loose the sand from its grip,
Then takes the well-trod curving path to shore’s edge, 
Guided by the rope line that traces each turn,
Shielding the tall grass that bends in the sea breeze as if in prayer.
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Having cast his line, he sets his rod in its sand spike
And watches intently the golden horizon for the sun’s silent arrival.
As before, he is filled with a wondrous sense of heightened clarity,
Allowing him to see himself both as a witness to a divine unfolding,
And as a thread woven flawlessly within it.

Transition

Lone ketch at dawn

Moored off the seawall

During an incoming tide –

Pleasing interlude

Between night and sunrise

Anticipation at Salt Run

Sailing skiffs, resting now too far aground,

Rely on the promise of an incoming tide,

While water joins sky in flushed expectation

Of sun’s regal rise o’er the eastern dunes.

Seduction’s End at Salt Run

  Though retreating mist still clings to the eastern dunes,
 And sailboats yet tug against moorings in the outgoing tide,
 The rising sun is below the horizon by but two degrees,
 And soon will end dawn’s dreamy promise of escape.

First Stanza

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The Jubilee approached St. Augustine Inlet
In the calm-watered, first light of the morning.
Unknown to her captain, three leagues east
An exceedingly strong storm was forming.

Before Morning Parade at St. Augustine National Cemetery

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There is a brief moment, just as the sun rises above the houses across Marine Street and mixes with the last of night’s shadows, that the grave markers in the St. Augustine National Cemetery display their age before donning their regulation white.

Advancing Fleet

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From where I stand on the south side of the Bridge of Lions, I see five boats moored in a row along the sea wall approaching the Castillo’s ramparts, like so many English ships of the line in battle formation.

Daybreak at Salt Run, March 1, 2016

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Sun-gilded landing
Is mirrored in pastel waters,
While unhurried musings drift
Toward the creek’s final bend.

Sailboat and Lighthouse, February 3, 2016, 7:14 a.m., Saint Augustine Harbor

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I am a break-of-day photographer who lives at the edge of land in St. Augustine, Florida. Since moving here, I have become drawn to moored sailboats in our small harbors that open into the vastness of the Atlantic. My attraction is related to a notion I have of man’s boundless curiosity that has historically driven him to undertake dangerous, far-ranging seagoing adventures.

The best time to capture this mood with my camera, I have learned, is during the brief period before and after the sun rises on days of partly clear skies and gentle winds. The sun’s light is not blindingly bright then, and its position is low, horizontal to objects on the water and beneath the clouds, resulting in deepened colors, highlighted shadows, long reflections in still waters, and, when I am lucky, an arresting photo.

A Hard Choice, February 11, 2016, 7:45 a.m.

If I had to choose, I would take the ketch, which is moored farther away from me toward the bay’s eastern shore, for I am partial to the lines of older boats and especially so to two-masted ones. But – honestly? – any one of them would suit my purpose at this particular moment.

Vilano Images

Illustrated Coctail Napkin Thoughts

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