View allAll Photos Tagged Faint
Yesterday. It should be spring but nature decided to give us winter.
I realized the falling snow looked just like the kind of snow I learned to make in Photoshop (thanks Phlearn). Good to know! This one here is real though, taken at 1/250 sec (f2.8). I took some images at slower speeds but the snow looked less good the longer the exposure. At 1/40sec you could hardly make out the tree anymore, it was just a white wall. I called it faintly green because under the tree snow takes the longest to stick.
Hours of waiting, but clouds came and ruin the perfect clear sky. Maybe next time is better.
5 shot panorama.
Nikon D3100, Nikkor 17-55mm f/2.8G @ 17mm, 20sec, f/2.8, ISO800.
Trinity Churchyard
The title is inspired by the last lines of James Joyce's "The Dead"
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
"Let us look for secret things
somewhere in the world,
on the blue shore of silence
or where the storm has passed,
rampaging like a train.
There the faint signs are left,
coins of time and water,
debris, celestial ash
and the irreplaceable rapture
of sharing in the labour
of solitude and the sand."
Pablo Neruda, Forget About Me
Down at Shelda creek the last few nights. Moderate kp index and under 50% cloud cover. There was a faint green color explosion that stretched over Lake Michigan. It was a very distinct line that shaped like a rainbow. Over the course of an hour it got brighter but pretty much stayed like this the whole night.
Once again I find myself in the ever changing city of Kamloops. This time, fires from adjacent areas send smoke that distort one's view. This leaves a local mountain, shrouded in a costume of smoke. A log that was floating along the river, is now lodged in dirt that should be the bottom of that very same river.
Together, they create a story of disturbing change. The air is now fowl with the scent of burnt wood. There is no rain and little glacier run off. A howling wind leaves terrible damage in its wake. It all makes one wonder but, it does make for an intriguing photograph.
This is my first pass at catching some galactic and intergalactic flux nebula. You can see patterns around M81 'Bodes Galaxy' in the center of the image. This is material that is moving between it and nearby galaxies. As an amateur processing these images I am always suspicious I am creating processing artifacts rather than exposing actual structures. So it's really gratifying to see the weird little arch and 'w' at the bottom of Bodes Galaxy are also in fact faintly present in a long exposure higher focal length image I took last year: flic.kr/p/2pHCC2g
The larger dust patters, particularly bright towards the bottom, are much closer and are in fact inside our own milky way galaxy.
"The Little Wattlebird is a medium to large honeyeater, but is the smallest of the wattlebirds. It is mostly dark grey-brown above, with faint white shafts on each of the feathers. The underparts are grey and are heavily streaked with white. The streaks are finer around the throat, becoming more blotched on the sides of the belly. In flight, there is a large rufous patch in the wings. The eye is blue-grey. The sexes are similar. Young Little Wattlebirds resemble the adults, but are duller, have less streaking and a have a browner eye."
Title: The Final Voyage of the Trawler Hawser and the Rusty Old Shackle
Once upon a briny dusk in the forgotten harbor of Crumpet’s Cove, an aging trawler named Hawser stirred from a decades-long nap. Her hull groaned like a grandmother with gout, barnacles clinging to her underbelly like stubborn regrets.
Beside her, hanging limply from a creaking bollard, was Shackle—a rusty, irritable hunk of iron with a temper like a wet matchstick and a voice like someone gargling gravel and moonshine.
"I’ve been thinking," muttered Hawser, her anchor winch twitching with vague purpose, "what if we just... left?"
Shackle squinted. “Left? We’re antiques, Hawser. Artifacts. Fish laugh at us. Seagulls use my eyelet as a public restroom.”
“Exactly,” said Hawser with a glint in her fog-light. “Let’s go out not as scrap, but as legends. One last voyage—for self-discovery!”
Shackle spat out a fleck of rust. “You’ve been listening to the tide-poets again, haven’t you?”
But deep down—beneath the barnacles and the tetanus—they both yearned for something more. Something wet and dramatic.
With a wheeze, a belch of diesel, and an illegal amount of enthusiasm, Hawser heaved herself off the dock. The ropes gave way with a theatrical snap, and Shackle clanged into place like a rusty exclamation mark.
They sailed into the open sea, where waves greeted them with surprise and mild concern.
“Where to?” asked Shackle, now vibrating slightly with existential dread.
“North-by-northeast-by-chaos,” said Hawser. “We follow the jellyfish. They know things.”
Three days in, they found a floating disco run by philosophical squid. Shackle got in a dance-off with a bioluminescent cuttlefish named Kevin and realized he’d been clenching his metaphorical jaw for 43 years. Hawser learned how to feel the ocean, instead of just floating above it. She cried bilge water for the first time since '79.
They sailed further.
They survived a romantic entanglement with a lovesick lighthouse, narrowly avoided being recruited into a pirate-themed reality show, and at one point, accidentally entered a whale’s book club. (Moby-Dick was panned.)
At the edge of the world—a place cartographers refuse to acknowledge due to tax reasons—they met The Great Crustacean, a sentient lobster the size of a small village, who challenged them to a riddle contest.
Shackle won by accident when he sneezed out a bolt that landed perfectly in the lobster’s weak spot. Hawser screamed, “THIS IS WHAT GROWTH FEELS LIKE!” and accidentally triggered her emergency foghorn, summoning every sea creature within 50 nautical miles.
Together, the duo was declared “Honorary Ocean Elders” and gifted a sash made entirely of kelp and unsolicited advice.
They never returned to Crumpet’s Cove.
Some say Hawser became a floating spa for therapy seals.
Others claim Shackle was last seen hosting a podcast about corrosion and emotional vulnerability.
All we know is, somewhere out there on the misty blue, a trawler and a shackle are still discovering themselves—and possibly reinventing maritime jazz.
Fin. And some people about Ai taking their jobs
On a deserted farm place, faint tracks hint at a former busy life centered around this deteriorating barn. Wrinkles lining a face, calloused hands and haltingly recalled memories are often the faint tracks in an older person that suggest they lived an active life during a time in America long gone.
" Imagination is the real and eternal world of which this universe is but a faint shadow. " - William Blake -
On my way back to Finland after driving up to Nordkapp, I stopped to stretch my legs and saw that the clouds were starting to clear, and there was a faint distant green. I threw on the snow shoes and started into the moonlit forest, when that distant green soon turned into an explosion of green all across the sky. I spent the next two hours running through the woods with my camera, looking up at the sky in awe. By the time the lights had started to die down, I was so exhausted I just laid there for a while in the snow before making the long walk back. It was the most peaceful quiet I have ever felt, the snow truly does absorb any little bit of sound, and there was nothing around to make sound.
📍 South of Skoganvarre, Norway
January 6, 2025
Canon 6D MKII
Tamron SP 15-30 2.8
f/4.0
ISO 1600
25 second exposure
Getting some practise in before the October challenge starts. Freelensing with Lensbaby Velvet 85. I added one of my textures. HBW
Distant Time
I know not from what distant time
thou art ever coming nearer to meet me.
Thy sun and stars can never
keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve
thy footsteps have been heard
and thy messenger has come
within my heart
and called me in secret.
I know not only why today
my life is all astir,
and a feeling of tremulous joy
is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come
to wind up my work,
and I feel in the air a faint smell
of thy sweet presence.
GITANJALI
The song offering
Rabindranath Tagore
Three ewes look on from a rocky knoll overlooking Glen Lyon. The glens shoulders look quite faint in the morning haze. These sheep certainly have a huge area to graze.
We had a faint showing of the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) just before the summit fog returned tonight. Didn't have enough time to adjust my camera but tried to edit with the one usable shot I got. Oh well, there will be other times ahead...
standing on west 33rd street, near hudson yards, i tilted my lens upward. the skyscrapers rose like steel giants, their glass facades reflecting the city's pulse. a faint rainbow arched across the sky, a delicate contrast to the rigid lines of architecture. in that moment, the convergence of human ambition and nature's subtle beauty was palpable.