The Simple And The Sentimental

mist 3

She had wanted to say to the stranger on the causeway: Come over here. The stranger had had a lens as long as half his forearm to his fingertips. And, high above the aqueduct, he aimed at the mist floating above the crevasse below. From where she stood, from one moment to the next, the cloudy image of the vale had shifted. But there is something about not speaking to strangers sometimes, not interfering with how another ice skater skates around the rink. There is something not to say to each gardener wielding her hoe. Or each coin collector examining the bust of Lincoln on a darkened penny. So, she said nothing at all. She walked away, having snapped five pictures quite suddenly, without a word or glance further, and later on tossed out pictures two, three, four, and five. The first one, as happens often, when the moment of surprise is seen, was the only one perhaps worth ever keeping.

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