The Photographer's Lament

 I often lament that I have become one of those social media-obsessed folks who lives through the lens of a camera, always on the lookout for the next picture to share with the world. What good is seeing something if you can't share it?

"If you could just turn
your head a bit...."

Going for an early morning run sans camera, every mile punctuated with a mournful "oh wow, look at that! I wish I had my camera." The sun a blazing orange disc, swaddled in pink clouds and all overlaid with a soft gray mist. The bird darting swiftly just ahead of me on the trail, two white rectangles on its tail. A curious-looking weed I'd like to identify.

Or this morning's parkrun at City Park: faint sun dogs overhead, a pair of Eastern Kingbirds foraging near the banks of the river. The groundhog I surprised next to the trail on the way home. All of them momentary glimpses of the world that come and go, leaving no evidence beyond the faint image in my memory.

Beautiful, thank you.

I tell myself the moments are all the more dear because they are ephemeral, and my own. The puppy tries to teach me his ways: eagerly watch for and investigate every novelty you come across, and then move on with no regrets. Check out the crayon a child left on the sidewalk; swivel your ears to locate the bird singing in the brush nearby, bite at the puffy head of dandelion seeds. And then move on.

There need be no permanence on a walk; it's the experience of the walk itself that is important. Those happenstance moments of beauty or novelty are just the sprinkles on the happy donut of life's meandering journey.

But then I go out with the camera again and see the odd shape in the shadows near the creek. Click! Well hello Cooper's Hawk! That's a curious place for you...hold still a moment, and maybe turn your head a bit so I can get your fierce eye in focus. Wow, this'll be great for the blog! Click-click-click.