Other times when I hear the wind blow
I feel that just hearing the wind blow makes it worth being born.
— Fernando Pessoa, The Collected Poems of Alberto Caeiro
Notes: Photo – DK @ Cove Island Park. Poem: Thank you The Vale of Soul Making
I can't sleep…
Other times when I hear the wind blow
I feel that just hearing the wind blow makes it worth being born.
— Fernando Pessoa, The Collected Poems of Alberto Caeiro
Notes: Photo – DK @ Cove Island Park. Poem: Thank you The Vale of Soul Making
Light glorifies everything.
It transforms and ennobles the most commonplace and ordinary subjects.
The object is nothing; light is everything.
— Leonard Misonne (Belgium landscape photographer, 1870 – 1943)
Notes:
Twilight can gift us some of the most spectacular atmospheric displays, a riot of shifting colours that punctuate the end of a day, or announce the arrival of a new morning.
The palate and quality of shadowless light has inspired artists, composers and authors from time immemorial and can induce feelings of awe, but also serenity.
These dazzling displays are brought to us thanks to the conjunction of the Earth’s orbital and atmospheric characteristics.
Twilight is the time, at the end of a day, between the sun setting below the local horizon and before the beginning of the night.
It is also the time between the end of the night and the sun rising above the local horizon, that marks the beginning of a new day.
From a meteorological perspective, twilight is further subdivided into three categories: Civil twilight, Nautical twilight and Astronomical twilight. These are based on how far the sun is beneath the horizon, with light and colour draining from the skies as night approaches… (Read on…)
— Chris Fawkes, from “Did you know there are three kinds of twilight? (BBC.co.)
Notes:


Like the moon in the morning —
all firmament, beautiful, about to vanish.
Each morning I walk out my apartment
& wonder what is going to become of me.
— Devin Kelly, “Deer on the Side of an American Highway,” published in drDOCTOR (via bostonpoetryslam)
We move within the snow-chromed world—: Like-animal. Like-deer. An alphabet. Along a street white as lamp light into the winter, walking—: like language, a new text. I touch her with the eyes of my skin.
~ Natalie Diaz, from ‘Between the Palm and the Ear” (Boston Review)
He felt at peace only in the hour before dawn, when the darkness seemed to give way slowly to a mist, and it was at this hour that he would wake and sit by his window.
— Peter Ackroyd, from Hawksmoor (Hamish Hamilton, May 25, 2010)
Notes: