Snow piles on the dark coat.
Thirty feet in the air, twelve hours, and a camera.
Smell of redwood around.
Waiting for one shot.
One bird.
One photographer.
These are people who go to great strains and time to do a job.
Something no one even ponders about.
About the article in the news paper but not who took the picture.
People who stand and look, spectate, and admire the smallest things.
Suddenly the bird lands meters away on a frozen branch.
The figure grabs the camera with purple, boney hands.
Ever so slightly one click.
A mirror shutters.
One image.
One second frozen in time forever.
YOU ARE READING
Brown Eyes
PoetryWords typed to show my view on life, love, youth and other thoughts that you might find crazy, too mystical and cheesy.
