Unbearable lightness of not being

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
--Emily Dickinson.

This morning I woke to a bright sky. Sunshine! I raced through tea and breakfast and drove out to Sauvie Island, hoping to find frost. I love to photograph frost. Despite my hurry, I was too late. All the frost had turned to droplets, and most of the droplets were fast evaporating.

I saw shadows in the apple orchards (you have to live in the Pacific Northwest to know how rare and beautiful shadows are to us--our skies are thickly overcast for months at a time). I saw one large beaver traveling alone with great determination along the edge of the river, toward the busy port. I wanted to shout, "You're going the wrong way!" But I couldn't speak her language. Pictures of apple tree shadows, the beaver, and a few feathers are here.

This is the aftermath of what must have been violence. A heap of feathers lay on the river beach, quivering in cold morning wind, glittering with beads of light and wetness. It was an unbearable lightness--not of being, but of that which has ceased to be. Here were pale, impossibly soft gray feathers covered in melting frost.

(A note on the photograph: very minimal post-processing, no color alteration--this is not a black and white picture, and I didn't sharpen it. If you look at it large, you'll see that the feathers are covered in tiny droplets of water.)

I take it as a tribute to loss--if loss could be this beautiful, if death were like feathers, if failure could flutter and disappear into brightness, if we could forget our shame as quickly as we forget our accomplishments.