More often, though, I wish I could (or would) have taken a picture. Such a situation occurred a couple of weeks ago.
I was running early in the morning -- pre-daylight-saving time change -- as the sun was coming up in the east. This is my favorite time to run, because the rising sun represents hope and the feeling that all things are possible, and I need to be reminded of both as much as possible.
By design, virtually all of my runs end along a street of quiet neighborhood street that overlooks Lake Wausau, and across the stretch of water, Rib Mountain. They are both pretty.
On this day, they were particularly pretty. As I said before, this was early, even more earlier than usual, and the first half of the run was predawn, and the sun was just blinking on the horizon when I reached this stretch of road. As I gazed across the water, a full moon planted itself just above Rib Mountain, and a ring of red from the sun colored the horizon where earth meets sky. It was astounding. It was breathtaking.
At one time on this planet of ours, people similar to us gazed up at the sky and made it their entertainment. They tracked the movements of the sun and the stars and made up stories around the pictures they saw above them. They were entranced by the flow of our universe, and found solace in its workings, even if they didn't understand them. When I saw the moon there, the red of the light, and the faint stars above, I felt a kinship with those forebears, and was jealous of them.
At that point, I thought to myself, I wish I could take a picture of this. And I vowed to bring a camera with me the next day.
The next day I didn't get up as early, and it was quite bright out by the time I made to the Lake Wausau overlook. The moon wasn't full anymore, but it still was kind of full. It wasn't as big as it was the day before, either. And it wasn't situated right above the mountain, but it was slightly askew. It was like this:
Damn you universe! You ruined my shot.
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