Returning for the Same Light

There’s a photograph on my website titled Coastal Drift that I’m particularly proud of.  On the surface, it looks simple.  A quiet composition.  A clean horizon.  A moment that feels effortless.

It wasn’t.

That photograph took a long time to earn.  The sky had to cooperate.  The flock had to move as one.  The alignment had to be right.  The light had to soften without disappearing.  It was one of those images that only comes together when patience and timing finally agree.

And now, I find myself drawn back to it.

Not to repeat it, but to return to the idea behind it.

Lately, I’ve become almost obsessed with pelicans.  These pterodactyl-looking birds have a presence that’s hard to ignore.  Their gregarious nature.  The way they move as a group when fishing or roosting.  Their iconic V-formations - a perfect example of economy of motion written into instinct.

There’s something deeply satisfying about watching them work together, adjusting effortlessly to wind and water.  No wasted movement.  No excess.  Just efficiency, rhythm, and trust.

I’m committed now to chasing a similar moment again - but different.  I’m after something near sunset.  Golden light catching the faces of the pelicans as they move.  Warm illumination on their forms.  And, if conditions allow, the reflection of the western sunset faintly visible on the Atlantic horizon to the east.

It’s a narrow window.  One that depends on weather, timing, and a little luck.

This isn’t my only creative pursuit right now.  But it sits near the top of the list.  Not because it needs to be captured, but because it keeps pulling me back outside.  Back into observation.  Back into patience.

Some photographs stay with you not because they’re finished, but because they open a door.  They show you what’s possible.  They invite you to return and look again.

For now, I’m content with the pursuit.  Watching the sky.  Studying the birds.  Waiting for the light to offer something new.

That’s part of the work too.