This was taken last weekend with Joel, when we finally managed to catch up after some time apart. I was still recovering from my wisdom teeth extraction, which had left me in surprisingly severe pain even two weeks afterwards. Eventually, I asked a colleague to prescribe a course of antibiotics, and the pain cleared almost immediately. In retrospect, it seemed that infection had been the problem all along.
It was a rather sobering reminder of the increasingly cautious world in which medicine now operates. With practitioners facing ever greater scrutiny and the possibility of audits, prescribing can sometimes become an exercise in hesitation rather than simply responding to what is in front of you. It feels like a sad reflection of the times we live in.
Yet, as often happens, photography offered a small escape from all of that.
The view that afternoon was unusual. A thin sheet of mist had settled across the landscape, and several hours before sunset the low sun slipped in from the side, filtering through the haze and quietly transforming the scene. The light was neither dramatic nor flamboyant; it was softer, stranger, almost suspended in the air.
For a brief moment, the landscape seemed to exist between two worlds—mist and light, distance and shadow. I simply lifted the camera and took the shot.
Sometimes the most memorable photographs are not the ones we go looking for. They are the ones that appear quietly before us, at exactly the right moment.
Sony A7RV
FE 20-70mm f4 G
Linking Skywatch Friday
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