Dying Light

The sun sets earlier than a month ago. I need to remember that for next time.

Of course, by the time I find the time to seek out a sunset photo, the sun will set even earlier than it did last night.

I never get bored of visiting Andrew Hayden Park to watch the dying light. I'm not alone. On the other side of the tree that stood to my left, two women stood with a camera on a tripod. I wasn't eavesdropping, but I could catch snippets of conversation, where one of the women was giving photo advice to the other.

Passing on tips and words of wisdom: even if you have lots of light, a tripod will always give you a sharper image... the smaller the aperture, the greater the depth of field, the longer the required exposure...

Bats flew overhead, coming so close to me that I could hear the flapping of their wings. But I wasn't bothered: they were keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

The steady stream of sailboats, their sails lowered, under engine power, were returning to harbour, the lit buoys guiding them safely home.

I arrived just as the sun reached the horizon, from behind a darkening cumulus cloud, far in the distance. Perhaps, as far away as Quyon or beyond. The red orb made one last showing before dipping below the horizon.

I prefer the light just after the sun has gone. When the light reflects from under passing clouds. When a yellow glow turns to orange, to pink, and then to purple.

Shadows grow everywhere. Silhouettes become more dramatic. Contrast increases with darkness against the light.

Eventually, the sky would become a rich indigo, but I had to pack up and leave before then, while I could still see distinctions in the grass, could still see the darkened spots of goose poop to avoid stepping in them.

Only a couple of vehicles remained in the parking lot. I wasn't the only photographer walking back to a car.

Above me, looking from west, to above, to east, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars were making their trek across the sky, toward the dying light.