The Wild Logic Of Light

This photograph, taken at Surf Drive Beach, feels like something more than just wood, sand, and sky. There’s an inexplicable energy in the way the sun threads itself through the bones of that weathered structure—as if the light was not simply rising, but returning. Not just showing itself, but choosing this place, this moment, as home. It’s not nostalgia. It’s not even serenity. It’s the feeling that the Earth itself remembers you, even if you’ve forgotten yourself.

The house on stilts, perched above the dunes, looks like it could lift off and float if asked. Its weathered shingles, faded door, and salt-worn steps speak of time and resilience. Yet it doesn’t feel abandoned or alone—it feels like it’s listening. To what? Maybe to the wind that remembers every name it’s ever carried. Maybe to the water that once rushed through someone’s heart. There’s magic here, but not the kind that needs to be explained. It just is. And maybe that’s what this photograph holds: a visual echo of what can’t be named but longs to be felt.

As a photographer still learning to trust my eye, this image reminds me that the most powerful shots don’t come from control—they come from wonder. This moment wasn’t staged. It was stumbled upon, gifted to me by the union of sun and shape and breath. And that’s what keeps me photographing. Not perfection, but presence. Not mastery, but awe. I don’t need to know what made this image magical to know that it is. And maybe that’s the most original truth of all: some beauty simply shows up, unannounced, and changes us forever.

Poem: The Wild Logic of Light

That house was never just a house—
it stood like a sentinel,
watching centuries pass in waves,
its bones braced against storms
and the tender,
inevitable return of light.

The sun filtered through its frame
as if time was walking home.
Each plank glowed
like it held a secret
about love that endures
long after leaving.

Clouds gathered like listeners,
not to block the sky
but to witness it bloom.
Even the breeze felt ancestral—
whispers braided
into the tall dune grass.

The earth knows how to hold us
without hands.
We walk thinking we are lost
and then something—
a slant of gold,
a lifted shadow—remembers us.

You don’t need a map
when the wind turns warm
and a structure, worn and crooked,
opens its ribs to the sun
like a prayer
spoken through wood.

Call it grace, or gravity,
or the wild logic of light—
but once you’ve seen a house
hold the sun in its chest,
you begin to believe
in the architecture of wonder.

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16in x 10in
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16in x 10in
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36in x 22in

16in x 10in
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