I made my morning coffee yesterday and sat down at the computer to attend a webinar when the storm announced itself, like wooden wagon wheels rumbling over a rocky track in the distance. As it drew closer a light, steady rainfall began, and that’s when I stepped outside to listen.
The rain intensified but fell softly, a welcome drenching in a so far even-tempered summer. After a few minutes the gutter at the side of the house was emptying its contents into a large ceramic pot at the end of the downspout, making music you’d expect from a tiny water fall.
Swallows circled the yard, feeding a pair of young perched at the box hole. I’d sat and observed them for an hour the day before, certain they’d leave the nest. As I continued to sip my drink a hummingbird came close to sample from an Australian fox glove, and the brief storm moved away to entertain others, leaving puddles and the rich scent of rain behind.
I returned to my desk and the online presentation I’d registered for weeks ago. But what was this? A registration code? (Probably included in an email I couldn’t find right now.) And more dialog boxes with numbers to call, et cetera. Some things are beyond my patience, so I hung up.
The subject was timely, however—how to make videos (or films, as the current cognoscenti like to say) using a 35mm camera. I’ve dabbled a bit with my Canon 5DII, but it’s a new routine with a new language to learn—voilá, my tripod is a stick!—and I’ll probably go about it in the usual way, by trial and many errors, and remembering to step outside when the moment calls for it.