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You take one final shot. Not of the tree, but of your own shadow, stretched long and thin across the wet grass. In the lustery light, your shadow looks older than you. Wiser. More resigned.
The lustery light forgives imperfection. It says: Your blurry edges are beautiful. Your underexposed shadows are not failures, but invitations.
The sound is final. Like a lock turning. Like a small, necessary death. lustery autumn cam
You press the shutter.
The wind rises. Ten more leaves let go.
Imagine a hill at 4:47 PM in late November. The sun has already lost its argument with the horizon. You are holding an old film camera—a Soviet Zenit, maybe, or a battered Pentax—whose lens fogged slightly from the warmth of your breath.
I am standing in the beautiful wreckage of time, and I have chosen to look carefully. That is all. That is everything. You take one final shot
You lower the camera.