Photography And Half-Thoughts By Mitchell Hegman

...because some of it is pretty and some of it is not.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Hunting Season

Yesterday, while floating around in the hot tub outside my back door at 7:30 in the morning, I heard four high-powered rifle shots from the gully just below my house. I suppose that in some places the sound of four shots would rate as pretty alarming. Not here. Not during hunting season. This is the kind of country where the box of a passing pickup might as likely have pairs of legs sticking up as the back of a sofa. This is where your local newspaper might feature a picture of your cousin or neighbor posed with a set of antlers. We eat liver here, and the nuts off bull Herefords. I don't wear a damned thing when I go outside to hot tub--not even when it snows. Sometimes shots are fired.

--Mitchell Hegman

Sunday, November 21, 2010

A Sure Sign

Here at the Hegman house, we had our first certain sign of winter. The other day, Uyen let Roxie, one of our cats, out the front door. Roxie padded out and froze to the sidewalk where she sat down.

--Mitchell Hegman

Sunday, November 14, 2010


The Moon, cold love that she is, continues to slowly drift away from the Earth, increasing the space between by something near an inch-and-one-half each year. Consider this, without the Moon’s gravity clasping us, we and our blue planet would soon rotate wildly, wobbling without control as a top spinning down just prior to crashing to the floor and skittering to a stop. Climates here would shift entirely in only years or months—ice ages coming and going with the rapidity of our present seasons.

And if this is not enough change for you, then contemplate our Sun as it gradually consumes itself and fizzles down. Near the end of days, it will reach out, enveloping all of the solar system and the planets still circling as beads swirled in a salad bowl. And the sun will abruptly superheat and consume the plants.

But the Moon is fixed our best dreams, those softly lighted, and others where words come easy and white doves flutter down bearing pure sugar cubes, ours for the taking. She pulls tides over us like blankets. She strolls quietly though the tall trees along the mountains, and yet all the time she plots her eventual departure. The Sun, now bright, but caught in a self-consuming waltz.
We, too, plan our leave. Our strategy is not nearly as inexorable as that of the Sun and Moon and alarmingly recent. With rockets we climb the thin black skies. In the Apollo missions we left at 35,000 feet per second. And we came back again. We must go. We must go because the Moon and the Sun conspire against us, because we cannot stay here forever, because even lowly rock doves scatter as we reach for them.

--Mitchell Hegman