I spent some time with water lilies in August and it was a far different experience than photographing forest plants or wild weeds in ditches. In my mind, lilies had been the stuff of Monet; pastel, subdued, domestic, a little blurry. Nope. Nothing of the sort. These water lilies were lovely, yes, with ivory petals and a sweet spring-like scent that seemed out of place in late August. But life stirred, unseen, among and between and beneath the blossoms.
Surrounded by the lilies, I had no illusion of being alone — even when the wind was calm, there were noises, hints of movement, a rustle, a ripple, a snap, a leaf that turned or a flower that nodded without apparent reason. And when a breeze did pass by, it stirred an uneasy leathery rustling among the leafy stalks that breathed out a feeling of watchfulness.
The sun had just slid beneath the tree tops when a heron grated out its guttural call and burst from the dense and shady treeline behind the lilies, at the edge of the water. I had had no idea it was there. It swept the orange sky with its wings as it glided away along the shore, but the feeling of watchfulness stayed behind.I never did see what other beings twitched the lily stalks or stirred the water beneath them but they were still there, stirring in the shadows, when twilight finally moved me away from the flowers and back to shore.
