Wings, Aloft and Fallen

Wings are among my photographs’ most frequent subjects.

I did not consciously plan a mini-trend, but my first novel has a fallen wing on its cover, while my first (and likely only) non-fiction book’s cover has frigates flying aloft in lavender twilight.

The picture of of the sheared-off wing is mine. I still cannot bring myself to contemplate how it was shorn. The photo could be the answer to a riddle: I took it in full color in black and white. My daughter and I were on a black sand beach in Iceland, where I was minutes away from slipping on black ice at the lower part of a cliff, breaking a leg not far from the bright white seafoam washing ashore.

The frigates were photographed by my husband, aloft above him and soaring over equatorial waters, on this side of the veil, as of course my husband was then.

I have been lucky enough to see and photograph winged creatures on other continents since then, wishing every second all of us could have been together, but feeling the connection between what’s earthbound and heaven sent.