I like this image. It is the type of picture I think I'd see in one of the David Ward / Joe Cornish books on landscape photography. You don't have to agree, it's just the way I feel. You could say, "It really, really sucks," and I'd still like it just fine. I burnished the sun's warmth a bit and pushed some of the details in the grass and, after a light vignette, it was done. You really didn't think it came out of the camera like that so there's no harm in revealing what I did in post.
My appreciation of this scene didn't come on all at once. I took the photo in January. Here it is nearly September and I'm just now understanding its charm. I like the flow of the sea grass as it overlaps the rock where the sun warms it. There is detail here that attracts me. The grass is not lazy, it's exhausted. It has spent an entire high tide flowing to-and-fro to the demands of the relentless tide. Now it yields, quietly gathering strength for the next skirmish.
It's an intimate landscape. That being, it isn't a grand or a magnificent seascape with a glorious setting sun turning cloud-filled skies into a wonderland of gold and magenta. It is an intimately small idea, a scene which may require you to look a bit longer and find a lesser flourish brought on by a lighter touch. I feel more pleasure in finding scenes like this than I do in those grand landscapes that scream at you with vibrant colors or bold monuments. In a selfish moment I can take comfort in knowing that it will never be repeated. This image is singular. Mesa Arch, dressed in reds and golds cannot say the same. Nor can the stoic and forever still Half Dome. They will always be minus a tide to confuse them and vary their living composition.