A gun-metal grey day delivered very little inspiration from life's ceiling. Underfoot everything looked like death, in this, the season of life. Spring. As I schlepped along, my hang dog camera swung from my shoulder like a long-bored pendulum. I looked eagerly to the heavens for a gift, for light, for warmth. There was none. I shook my fist and longed for the kaleidoscope of New Zealand, still burning brightly in my wandering mind.
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It was one of those late afternoons when the yarn thick clouds pulled the wool over the lone eye of the sun. I was a drop of pink paint and bones walking across a barren, salt and pepper landscape. Boots scuffed the sand and pebbles; I strained to motivate my pace. I stopped to reflect. Alone I stood on the bridge, a perfect steel and concrete metaphor for deliverance...from one place to another. I looked down, beyond the lines of noteless guardrailing. Far below I saw music.
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There was nowhere left to go, for I had already arrived. The music that played upon the water was not obvious. It was to be seen, not heard. Shattered ice, itself cursing its fate from above, drifted past the reflection of a grossly muted sun. I was witnessing my own emotion reflected in the ice, but it was a mirage. It was not the lingering death of winter, rather the birth of spring. I gazed down upon earth like a startled godfather.
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An endless world of possibilities drifted past my eyes. Depicted in the images above is but one interpretation of a fleeting moment in springtime.
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