"Red Sky in Morning"

Winter mornings along Minnehaha Creek move at their own pace, or hardly move at all. The water lies still beneath thin ice, more a mirror than a current. The air hangs heavy with quiet, and the world feels paused. Then, for a brief moment, the sun breaks through. It hits the frozen banks like a slow breath, warm against the cold. The light doesn’t rush in; it unfolds.

There’s an old saying: Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. A sign of weather on the way, but also a kind of promise. The skies that warn us are often the same ones that give us the drive-in movie. The calm, cloudless days are easy to love, perfect for being in the moment, but they don’t always tell much of a story. The storms, the shifting clouds, the imperfect skies, they’re what give the world its shape.

It’s the same behind a lens. The best photographs rarely come from perfect blue skies. Overcast light softens the edges; storms draw out depth and contrast. Imperfections create interest, meaning, and emotion. The clouds make the image, not the absence of them.

We pick up the polished stones on the beach, the ones smoothed by years of tumbling through sand and surf. But without the constant churning of water and grit, they’d never reach that state. What we call beautiful is the result of pressure, friction, and time. The same is true for us.

Maybe the storms aren’t what we endure to get to the good part. Maybe they are the foundations of the good parts, the moments that shape us, wear us down, and reveal what lasts.

A winter sunrise over still water has a way of showing that truth. The clouds don’t block the light. They give it something to shine through.