Close-ups in Nature [antikvár]

PREFACEOne afternoon in Zion National Park, I was strolling along a path that in the rainy season would have been a meandering tributary, swollen with water. Now, in the dry conditions of fall, this arroyo offered a quiet place to search for potential photographic subjects. As 1 walked, 1 began to notice the designs on sandstone walls, small footprints going this way and that, the amazing blueness of juniper berries, the deep crimson of a sawtooth maple leaf. The songs of a canyon wren and the pungent odor of sage enveloped me, and I began to feel a part of this incredible landscape.After a while, I found myself seeing more and looking deeper. Some fallen cotton-wood leaves drew me in for a closer inspection. As 1 marveled at their intricate design, a movement on one of the leaves caught my attention. Perched on a curl of the leaf, anLeft: Butterfly on cottonwood leaves, !photographed this butterfly as it was departing from our encounter. It was not the image that impressed me most, but the emotions of that day in an arroyo. n. r.almost totally camouflaged swallowtail butterfly made itself known to me. Strangely, it didn't seem to be in a hurry to flit anywhere. Thrilled by the chance to photograph it, 1 quickly set up my tripod and lay down on the sand to get an eye-level view of this wonderful creature.After exposing a few images, 1 crawled a little closer. As the wings became more visible, I began to see many tatters and wounds. On a whim, 1 offered my hand, and the butterfly stepped onto it.I'm not sure how long we shared that moment in time, but at some point, he flew away. I sat for a long while after his departure, watching the cottonwood leaves dance where the butterfly had once stood. All else was quiet and still.1 did photograph the butterfly that day, but what was most important was not the image on the light table. What provides my photographic inspiration and passion and remains long after the fleeting, transitory moments are memories such as the feeling of a butterfly in my hand, and lying down amid the smells and sounds of an arroyo.Nancy Rotenbergvii