Landscape
A man once noted, "The universe has spoken, nothing more ever needs to be said."
The sapience of these words slowly rotating round and round in my mind like a slide carousel strikes me, as I peer in wonderfully dumbfounded awe through my vintage lens. I've journeyed vast distances forever tugged further forward by the fleeting horizon, but always no more and no less than the length of my lens. The carefully crafted barrel of perfectly milled steel and flawlessly ground glass is my linkage to, and my translator of, the indefinable magnitude of what the Creator has so boldly stated, what now spreads before me, speaking over eons in the rolling, lumbering language of land.
Click. The shutter engages. And in that humble mechanical action a momentary excerpt of the grand address of the one the American Indians called the Great Spirit is captured by a mere mortal. The brief twinkle of light emitted through the blinking aperture is a stark metaphor of my own abbreviated totality in this never-ending song of the landscape.
I continue to gaze through the lens, unable to tear away, unable to think other thoughts, immovably mesmerised by the humbling awareness that I have been allowed to participate, to spectate, to be here, now, during this verse of the great, unforgettable Song.
