What if the miracle came without warning—but not without meaning?

They call it the old railroad bridge at Celebration Park, or better known to locals as Guffey Bridge, but that night it felt like the edge of heaven. The aurora had been forecast, but I knew better than to expect her. She comes when she wants—silent, sudden, sacred.

I waited in darkness, camera set, breath held. The cold crept in slowly, wrapping around my fingers and my spine. Stars pierced the sky above the iron rails, and then, it began. Light—green, violet, and rose—draped across the sky like a celestial curtain drawn just for me.

Photographing the Northern Lights is never simple. You fight the cold, the wind, the settings that shift with each movement of the sky. But when the exposure ended and I saw the glow framed through rusted steel, I knew I'd captured something eternal.

This bridge once carried freight and fire. That night, it carried light. My hope is that this image lets you feel that hush—that radiant, reverent awe.