The return of The Golden Hour

The worst of the 90s (er, temps, not nostalia for) may be over for this year. For the first time since, I don't know, May? - we felt the golden hour spill over the treetops at about 85 degrees. Perhaps, I thought wistfully, we've put the 90s behind us for this year.

Rodney and I walked back to the creek with the dogs. They have absolutely no appreciation for curling silver wisps of Spanish moss, nor bright small branches of resurrection fern, nor glimpses of sky as blue as precious turquoise. But they like the clear air, the lightening of humidity; perhaps they sense my projection of hopeful anticipation of autumn. And certainly they like the view of the creek, shown here with a glimpse of rope swing (for those of you like Friend of the Blog Suldog, who share a fondness for ziplines and rope swings). And of course like most dogs, ours find the allure of mud irresistible. Dogs. Sheesh.

We carried cameras in the potential service of our own irresistible artistic needs. We took photos. And yet...these are such delicate hints of coming change, such finely drawn foreshadowing of the inevitable turning of the year they're virtually impossible to capture in images. How can I photograph the nearly imperceptible movement of the sun, the ever-so-slight moderation in temperature and the almost immeasurable decrease in humidity? The shine of the golden sun, descending through air more clear than that of June or July; the freshening color of the sky, suddenly showing true azure, veritable robin's egg blue, and oh, my dears, the cautious, hopeful longing for the changes of fall: I am far from gifted enough to catch these in images, though I see them well enough, and often tell my family that if I'd a choice of an artistic gift I would call for Edward Hopper's. If I had this, perhaps it would be in my two hands to capture the light, the change: the hope.

But it comes along, despite my ineptitude. The fall will come, The Baby will leave for Africa, the brilliance of fall will bloom in the persistent purple thunbergia Miss Inga gave me so many years ago. It will bloom in the pale pink trumpet flowers transplanted from Katie's garden. The wedelia brought from Jayne's garden will recede under the changing conditions. And the familiar will turn and turn until we can once again see the sun returning through our own carefully constructed versions of Stonehenge. And however inept I feel, I will continue to take the pictures, continue to share them here, continue to hope you take your own pleasure in the changing of the seasons and the immutability of our old world.