View allAll Photos Tagged darknature
Taken with a projection lens Meyer-Optik Görlitz Diaplan 100mm f/3.5, Fujifilm X-A2 and a Viltrox focal reducer. JPG edited with Snapseed
Tomada con una lente de proyector de diapositivas Meyer-Optik Görlitz Diaplan 100mm f/3.5, Fujifilm X-A2 y reductor focal Viltrox. JPG editado en Snapseed.
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Across the ancient dark waters, a singular radiance broke through the oppressive, violet-black storm clouds like a celestial golden splinter. It was the eye of an ethereal queen, looking upon a forgotten harbor at the edge of the known world. On the shore, silent stone obelisks stood as sentinels of memory, each crowned by a single, dark bird that had seen the rise and fall of forgotten empires. The concrete promenade was a slick path to the edge of the abyss, where the ocean pulsed with the rhythm of distant, silent storms.
This luminous dawn in the midst of a storm was a spectral promise. It was said that once every hundred years, the sun would reveal its truest, golden nature, but only to those places shrouded in complete, somber night. As the light intensified, the silhouettes of a distant city to the right were momentarily bathed in a ghostly orange light, appearing as an impossible castle from a forbidden tale. The birds on the pillars did not move, for they were waiting for the golden splinter to fade, leaving them to their infinite watch over the silent, dark tides.
The Sky’s Final Breath
The horizon is set ablaze as the sun dips behind the towering sentinels, casting long, ink-black shadows across the rippling water. The clouds are no longer mere vapor; they have become a chaotic canvas of fire and indigo, swirling in a silent, epic dance that heralds the coming of the night. It is a moment of profound stillness, where the world seems to hold its breath, caught between the warmth of the dying light and the cold embrace of the approaching dark.
Along the riverbank, the trees stand like ancient witnesses to this celestial war. Each ripple in the water catches a fragment of the golden fire, carrying the sun's last embers downstream into the unknown. The air feels heavy with a gothic melancholy, a reminder that every beautiful light must eventually surrender to the shadows. It is a majestic, dramatic end to the day, captured in a frame where time itself feels frozen in a state of eternal transition.
Haven't posted for a long time. I really liked the textures of these trees, I can hardly wait to start taking photos again and going on hikes to clear my mind. Thanks for the visit and have a nice day
Night capture
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The sun does not set in this forsaken valley; it bleeds out behind the jagged teeth of the mountains, staining the heavens with the color of ancient, drying wine. Beneath the suffocating canopy of skeletal branches, the fog rises like the breath of the restless dead, swallowing the roots of the world in a cold, silent embrace. There is no wind here, only the weight of a thousand secrets buried under the damp earth, waiting for the last spark of light to extinguish so the true shadows can finally walk.
These sentinels of wood have stood guard for centuries, witnesses to a time when the land itself was alive with a different kind of fire. Now, they are mere skeletons, their claw-like branches etching a message of warning onto the canvas of the dying sky. The mist below hides the ancient stones of a forgotten abbey, where the echoes of a broken prayer still resonate. It is a place where time has stalled, a borderland between the fading memory of a peaceful past and the encroaching, absolute darkness that promises to consume everything.
The firmament is no longer a simple expanse of air and water, but a vast, celestial garden where the clouds bloom like heavy, leaden lilies. These ethereal petals, bruised by the oncoming night, stretch across the horizon, their white edges catching the last, desperate rays of a hidden sun. Below, the sea waits in a cold, obsidian silence, acting as a mirror to the divine decay occurring in the heavens above, while a solitary stone pier stands as a forgotten altar to the tides.
In this gothic landscape, the light does not shine; it pierces through the gloom like silver needles, illuminating the turbulent path toward the unknown. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and ancient salt, a poetic precursor to a storm that promises to wash away the remnants of the day. It is a moment of profound, melancholic beauty, where the boundary between the celestial and the abyssal dissolves into a single, monochromatic dream of stone and spray.
As twilight settles over the canopy, a lone squirrel descends the trunk of a spiked tree its silhouette sharp against a brooding sky. The jagged leaves stretch outward like claws, framing the creature in a scene that feels more omen than observation. There's something unnatural in the stillness, something watching from behind the clouds. This black and white photograph captures a moment suspended between motion and menace, where even the familiar feels uncanny.
My latest photography is now available for purchase at crsimages.pixels.com/, featuring prints, framed art, and more from my curated collections.
Blue. blue flowers. Once Forget me nots were known as scorpion grass, they only became Forget me nots at the beginning of the 19th century. Their seeds catch on peoples clothes and then fall off elsewhere. Random germination.
The distant chime of the last train has faded into the deep, dark night. The once-polished steel rails now curve into the overwhelming gloom of the forest, slick with the unyielding rain. The ancient trees stand as mute sentinels, casting elongated shadows over the wet ballast. Patches of fallen leaves and stones are slick with moisture, a few luminescent fungi clinging to a decayed log, their faint glow the only spot of light. Where these tracks lead, nobody knows; perhaps they vanish into a dream, or to a place that exists only in memory, a destination that can only be reached in the silence.
In the dim light of a forgotten grove, three spiders hang motionless in a web stretched like a veil across shadow and silence. The largest crouches low, its limbs splayed like a sigil of warning. Above it, two smaller figures linger, sentinels or spawn, no one’s sure. A jagged branch casts a claw-like shadow across the scene, as if reaching for something it can’t quite touch. The web itself seems alive, pulsing with tension, spun not just from silk but from something older. This is no ordinary nest—it’s a shrine.
My latest photography is now available for purchase at crsimages.pixels.com/, featuring prints, framed art, and more from my curated collections.
The river flowed like liquid obsidian, heavy with the weight of centuries and the shadows of the towering trees that guarded its banks. In this secluded sanctuary, the air felt thick with a quiet, ancient power, as if the golden light filtering through the leaves was not from the sun, but a lingering breath of a world long gone. Every ripple on the dark surface whispered a story that the forest had kept hidden, a dramatic dance between the light that tried to touch the water and the deep green darkness that pulled it back into the earth.
There was a haunting stillness that commanded respect, a gothic elegance found only where nature remains untamed and watchful. The birches leaned over the water like silent specters, their pale trunks reflecting in the murkiness below, creating a mirror to a realm where time had no meaning. It was a place of profound solitude, where one could almost hear the heartbeat of the land thrumming beneath the moss, an epic testament to the enduring mystery of the wilderness that thrives just beyond the reach of man.
Deep in the Georgia woods, a shadowed creek winds through tangled undergrowth and leaning trees, their limbs clawing at the dim light filtering through the canopy. A small wooden bridge lurks in the background, half hidden by mist and foliage, as if guarding secrets long forgotten. The monochrome palette casts a ghostly hush over the forest, where reflections ripple like whispers and the silence feels watchful. This image evokes a sense of mystery and quiet unease, an untouched place where time slows and nature holds its breath.
My latest photography is now available for purchase at crsimages.pixels.com/, featuring prints, framed art, and more from my curated collections.
The Back Stab isn’t just a photograph of birds. It’s a metaphor — for how even the gentlest forms can carry tension. For how beauty sometimes masks intent. And for how the sharpest wounds don’t always come from enemies — but from those just behind us.
Two days ago an F2 and F3 tornado went through Texas. My family and I are safe as well as everyone in my area.
Roofs were blown away or damaged, fences destroyed and trees fallen. In the center of my back yard is this tree, which I had previously photographed and titled "Bare Branches" my 52nd Explore photo. If you look at that photo and the capture of this one, you will see the power of mother nature.
I see two strengths, the power of the tornado to cut off the branches on this tree and the tree's strength to still stand strong, while a few other tree's toppled over in my yard.
It represents life, not in a pretty light, but in the sense of strength. We can get beat down in life, have tornado like events toss us around, but it the end, we are still standing, not looking pretty, but still strong.