The majority of my photographic subjects exist in unique little bubbles of time, where the spotlight is both bright and brief.
When I went to explore its secrets yesterday (a daily ritual these past two weeks) I saw that the garden flowers are well into their inevitable summer decline. In a day or two I’ll cede the crocosmias to a pair of hummingbirds who’ve laid an honest claim to that portion of the plot, stop chasing daisies as they play in the breeze (and wilt in the sun), and call on the lilies less often, as they assume the shy countenance of elderly Southern belles.
After the garden loses its allure I’ll look to harvest activities for ready subjects—farmers are beginning to gather up grass seed crops and after that, wheat will be cut. They’re not comparable to flowers, yet combines working in a golden field exhibit a certain gracefulness of their own. Along the edges of fields and in ditches, grasses and thistle will attract my lens, too, along with the goldfinches and butterflies that visit them.
By summer’s end all of this will seem distant, supplanted by newer subjects clamoring for the spotlight as the seasons, and the stage, are set up for the next act.