At the risk of stating the obvious, much of the time when I take pictures with my phone, I can’t see anything. (Well, I can hardly see anything.) The screen is black-shiny and dull-grimy from greasy fingers and ears. I am too cold or too hot or too bent too uncomfortably into some photo-yoga contortion to watch the viewfinder for very long. I take pictures anyway. Occasionally this results in seeing something. Felicitous, visual accidents beyond the confines of deliberate craft are irritants. If they can’t be repeated, how can you know their true value? What do they signify about the creator and the viewer? Have I succeeded or failed?
It seems like the leaves have all the answers to those questions.
The story is this: summer is blowing away, carried to ground in yellow corpuscles riding thick-misted turbulent skies which admit no slant of the sunlight that formed into green only days ago. In the library parking lot, I saw this was so, and felt guilty ignoring my part. And though I tried my best, my camera was the only honest witness to the leaves’ unwinding.