Excerpt from "Daybreak": A Sudden Web
Excerpt from Daybreak:
The dark streets have been ours until we reach the main road, where we hear engines long before rare headlamps appear. I look up at the streetlamp and at first wonder if I see a tattered rag someone has thrown on the wires. Then I gasp in amazement and whisper, "Is that a web?"
A few steps further forward, we know for certain.
"It's as big as the stop sign," Mary whispers back. We spend a minute staring. The web has lost great round chunks, surviving what seems an epic battle.
Once, when I had hiked in Massachusetts' Blue Hills Reservation, I came upon a spiderweb the size of a doorway. I had knelt before it, gazing upon it and its maker with tears in my eyes.
"I've noticed that about the Blue Hills," Mary says. "They like to build their webs near the trails." ....
On our way home Mary and I stop again at the web, which I had not photographed before breakfast. It is still dark and I have no tripod; any exposure would be several seconds in length.
"You know you've got to try it," she says. I nod.
For two shots I listen to the slow whirr in my hands; then I pop up the flash. I doubt it will reach far enough to illuminate the web, but perhaps it will quicken my shutter speed.
The fog has thinned. Clouds emerge slowly in predawn light. As we walk home the sun begins to rise, brightening the sky almost urgently. The yard lamps give mixed opinions; some have turned off while others stay on. The air fills with bird song; engines rev.
At home, after the bakery shots, the thumbnails of my downloaded files show blurred strands and then a field of uninterrupted black.
Or so it seems. Viewing the field full-size reveals a hint of contrast that I sharpen and brighten in successive steps. Slowly, miraculously, the web appears.
Excerpt from "Daybreak": A Sudden Web
Excerpt from Daybreak:
The dark streets have been ours until we reach the main road, where we hear engines long before rare headlamps appear. I look up at the streetlamp and at first wonder if I see a tattered rag someone has thrown on the wires. Then I gasp in amazement and whisper, "Is that a web?"
A few steps further forward, we know for certain.
"It's as big as the stop sign," Mary whispers back. We spend a minute staring. The web has lost great round chunks, surviving what seems an epic battle.
Once, when I had hiked in Massachusetts' Blue Hills Reservation, I came upon a spiderweb the size of a doorway. I had knelt before it, gazing upon it and its maker with tears in my eyes.
"I've noticed that about the Blue Hills," Mary says. "They like to build their webs near the trails." ....
On our way home Mary and I stop again at the web, which I had not photographed before breakfast. It is still dark and I have no tripod; any exposure would be several seconds in length.
"You know you've got to try it," she says. I nod.
For two shots I listen to the slow whirr in my hands; then I pop up the flash. I doubt it will reach far enough to illuminate the web, but perhaps it will quicken my shutter speed.
The fog has thinned. Clouds emerge slowly in predawn light. As we walk home the sun begins to rise, brightening the sky almost urgently. The yard lamps give mixed opinions; some have turned off while others stay on. The air fills with bird song; engines rev.
At home, after the bakery shots, the thumbnails of my downloaded files show blurred strands and then a field of uninterrupted black.
Or so it seems. Viewing the field full-size reveals a hint of contrast that I sharpen and brighten in successive steps. Slowly, miraculously, the web appears.