The thing about the aurora is that you can't photograph it twice. Same night, same lake, same sky - and yet completely different. The curtains shift while you're standing there, the colors bleed and re-form, a band of green swings overhead and pulls a wash of rose and gold up behind it. Look down to check your camera and you look back up to a whole new sky. The whole display is movement - long luminous lines sweeping diagonally across the frame, the light itself seeming to pour from one corner of the heavens to the other. The sky the night this picture was taken was speckled and stippled with these clouds, scattered like flicks off a loaded brush - a Pollock canvas hung overhead, except this one rearranged itself every few seconds. No two moments the same. No way to know what shape or color was coming next. I think that's why I couldn't stop watching. There's a particular kind of wonder in not knowing what comes next - the good kind, the kind that keeps you looking up. So much of life is spent bracing for what's ahead, trying to pin it down, needing to know. But standing under a sky like this, the not-knowing was the gift. Every shift was a small surprise. Every blink, a new painting. Maybe that's the invitation in it. To hold the next moment a little more loosely. To trust that change - even the kind you can't predict, even the kind that comes in the blink of an eye - can be breathtaking. To keep your eyes up, curious instead of afraid, waiting to see what beautiful thing the sky decides to do next.