Like Diamonds
Winter eludes me. Photographically, I mean. Always has. Inevitably, in the depths of it, I see jet black lines against chalk; I see dark limbs, stretching naked and emaciated against aluminum skies. The season's subtle beauty, however, never enters my frame. There are too many parts interconnected, dozens of nuances at play that a single glimpse refuses to convey. The scent of life, stilled and muted and soft as velvet; air suspended and tactile; all sounds hushed and impossible to pinpoint. Remove one and the edifice crumbles.
I walked through a field of diamonds once. Thousands, sparkling, almost effervescent. I wasn't carrying a camera and didn't mind. I knew any attempt at a record would've been pointless, a fraction of the experience, too small to even matter. Winter's full of these, it seems. Moments meant only to be absorbed and breathed in, held in humble acquiescence until their vastness fills us.
That day I watched and watched until those diamonds pierced my eyes and nestled, a mutant swarm, alive and gestating. I stood and waited, bloodstream suddenly crystalline, as the stones murmured and my skin cracked and erupted. My dog, curious, stood at my feet
as our lonely road filled
with fireflies.
