I worked on Xenodream for years before my eye surgeries, then lost my way. My passion for fractals didn’t go away—I turned to OpenAI instead. I wanted one when I saw the night raccoon close-up. After our first rain in ages, I was inspired by raindrops on the bronze canna lily leaf.

Jenn's newest creation was a set of colorful moths. To show my appreciation, I went into the wonderlands and found an important message waiting there. It said, "You can learn something from every single creature. Even the moth at the window arrives carrying a story."

I'm almost ready to print my book, and this will likely be my last one. I'm going to all-digital and pdf books.

It was a happy surprise, when we got to the big lake, that even though there was fog, the birds were closer to our side of the lake than we had ever seen before and were not shrouded in the.fog There were only two on Monday, and on Tuesday there were about 200.

I was standing on the road with my phone, pivoting and trying to keep up with the cranes as they lifted off. Frame by frame for just under 30 seconds, I followed their flight. Much later, I found I’d captured the whole sequence— and I’m still amazed it worked.

We had seen butterflies gathered at mountain puddles on our Jeep trails. Each day this week, hundreds of blackbirds crowded this stretch of road—not for spilled grain, but for grit and minerals in the dust. Like butterflies, they were puddling.

As September got under way, we were ready to welcome cooler days. The chickadee was back, we saw our first fall leaves on the ground, and the rabbit brush was in full bloom. They were coming back even while it was still hot. We saw a sudden 50% jump to over 1000 clicks in a day.

I knew that our rabbitbrush at home was going to be in full bloom while we were gone, and I'd miss it. But I got to enjoy the bushes that grew so tall near the start of the refuge, and how, with that pink sky, and it reminded me that there are no real color clashes in nature.

Labor Day morning gave us a sky painted in pinks and fog, and cranes calling through the quiet. Strangest of all — no one else was there to see it. We’re still puzzled by that. You wanted to hurry on and find the cranes that we were hearing. I wanted to spend a moment with the fog.

We never knew which photo would be our last one before he thought we were too close, and we thought being casual in our approach while taking photos did help to keep him there a little longer. It was the first eagle we'd seen in a long time, and just seeing him made us happy.

As I photographed the eagle, moving slowly so he wouldn’t startle, I also took time for a few specimen shots. They’ve always been my teachers—offering small glimpses into the intricate details of the refuge plant life, each a reminder of how much there is still to notice and learn.

The migration had shifted a lot. We had seen a few cranes in September before, but not the crush of them. We knew October would not give us a better view of them, and our feet and fingers would freeze a lot more and our trip would be more of a challenge. We set our sights on RMNP.

I got my accordion from GPT (AI) and clipped Natali's paper to it, one panel at a time with skew.

I enjoyed sifting through over four thousand images to see what went on at our house while we were gone. The raccoons and a skunk had a heyday, and I felt their confusion when I watched a video of the towhee pondering the empty water bowl and the bunny with face in the camera. September’s bye...

We were ready to stow our cameras on the quiet south lake when I spotted dozens of cranes feeding in the fields just west of the water. In the golden hour sun, with the fall grasses glowing, the cranes’ feathers and their red caps came to life.

On our last day I noticed that the cranes were leaving the lake and almost, but not quite out of view, they were dancing. The wings were spread and they lifted together. I knew it was a dance because we'd seen it before at the Bosque in New Mexico. It was a happy dance.

The cranes fly through Colorado twice a year and stay for maybe a month at our wildlife refuge. We drive six hours to go see them. The hotel is a half hour away from this refuge, and another one. So I actually, you only have to drive five and a half hours in one go.

On Wednesday morning it was hazy, and the cranes more than doubled overnight. By sunrise the skies were filled with wings of cranes, geese and blackbirds. A night heron returned at last, and the refuge brimmed with life. To top it all off, we got to see a coyote and the red tailed hawk.

Only weeks ago the lake was parched, its shoreline brittle with silence. Now mist was clinging to the water, milkweed blazes with golden morning light, and blackbirds stirring the air. The south lake had come back to life, and with it, a reminder of resilience it was so beautiful.

We arrived to the sound of cranes — a whole gathering, we thought. But only two appeared, then silence. Still, the morning sky glowed in purples and pinks, and we had it all to ourselves.