Before the Brighter Light
Seemingly intertwining dune ridges, swept clean of marring footprints by the last night's winds, make for a soft golden abstract in the moments before the sun inched higher and harsher light invaded the landscape--at Mesquite Dunes, Death Valley National Park, California.
There is so much to love about these (or many other) dune fields, but high on the list is the fun of putting on the long lens, climbing up the shifting sands of a higher ridge, and looking far and wide for abstracts among the endless patterns and forms offered by the ever-shifting dunes. There's also some sort of contemplative joy just being out on those dunes awaiting sunrise. I imagine the vast time needed for the ancient, rigid features of the surrounding mountains to be broken down, piece by tiny piece, and blown into the valleys below, only to spawn these granularly ephemeral but generally durable forms.
Perhaps the sense of quiet plays a role as well. Despite all the tracks you see evidencing little creatures skittering across the sands, I almost never hear any bird or animal sounds heralding the coming dawn. Even when the winds surge to whistle low streams of sand rushing across the basin, and up and over each individual dune, rarely is that enough to shake my reverie.
Thanks for viewing.
Before the Brighter Light
Seemingly intertwining dune ridges, swept clean of marring footprints by the last night's winds, make for a soft golden abstract in the moments before the sun inched higher and harsher light invaded the landscape--at Mesquite Dunes, Death Valley National Park, California.
There is so much to love about these (or many other) dune fields, but high on the list is the fun of putting on the long lens, climbing up the shifting sands of a higher ridge, and looking far and wide for abstracts among the endless patterns and forms offered by the ever-shifting dunes. There's also some sort of contemplative joy just being out on those dunes awaiting sunrise. I imagine the vast time needed for the ancient, rigid features of the surrounding mountains to be broken down, piece by tiny piece, and blown into the valleys below, only to spawn these granularly ephemeral but generally durable forms.
Perhaps the sense of quiet plays a role as well. Despite all the tracks you see evidencing little creatures skittering across the sands, I almost never hear any bird or animal sounds heralding the coming dawn. Even when the winds surge to whistle low streams of sand rushing across the basin, and up and over each individual dune, rarely is that enough to shake my reverie.
Thanks for viewing.