Fragments From Floyd

The first hay cutting, usually in late June, became the only cutting in this wet summer. It happened while we were away in South Dakota. By midweek, the gray-green grass was wind-rowed, and a few drying days later, the serpentine rows of heaped grass were eaten and regurgitated by the baler. An earthy wholesomeness and sense of well-being emanates from those round half-ton biscuits lying for a day or so in haphazard order on our narrow valley floor. Soon they will be gone, stacked like cord wood for the winter in our neighbor's barn.

Meanwhile, the valley, especially early and late, the thirty organic monoliths in our field have become our own Stonehenge. This illusion is particularly striking in the waxing moon this week. You can imagine my excitement to walk out the back door one last time before bed on Thursday night to find the valley flooded with both moonlight and a tattered ground fog, poured like thin milk around the shredded-wheat bales. Blue moonlight reflecting off the rust-red barn roof created a color for which there no name. It was otherworldly still. I ran inside for my camera and tripod. I set up the shot. I pressed the shutter. Nothing happened.

I've learned today what I was going wrong, but not the dozen other things I must understand before I will be able to bring back the image I saw in my mind and in the viewfinder the other night.

This odd impressionist study in agrarian geometry is the best I can show you from last night's small success in night-time photography. I doubt I'll get another shot of Stonehenge before it is carted off on a flatbed trailer. Such is life.