This exact time a week ago I was sitting on my great grandfather's daybed at our lake house waiting for the sun to rise. It was the morning of Christmas Eve. We'd driven over the night before to share Christmas spirits with friends and spend the night. Spirits and driving don't mix.
It was frigid outside. Crackling air was disturbed only by the moans and signs of countless compressors as heating units chased the chills away from sleeping residents. Our own unit sat outside beneath my window and its wintery breath occasionally clouded the view.
No more sunrise photos I said to myself, for what would be the point? More images unused, clogging up space on a now second stand-alone backup hard drive.
But then those colors began washing the waters and sky and I was doomed. Doomed. Photographers have a gene that renders them incapable of letting a sunrise go to waste, a rodeo go undocumented, or a flower not be recorded for eternity. It's just what we have to do.
Besides, the silhouettes of trees with their few remaining leaves added so much to the composition.
Limbs stretched toward the sun with glee. Welcome. Welcome.
The softer edges of the sunrise looked like an opal casting gentler colors on the earth.
Maxfield Parrish clouds off in the distance.
Sunrise bokeh dappled and winked upon the ripples.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Giraffe Head Tree.
See more beautiful skies on Skywatch Friday.