Today, there is the walk to the rock.
A plan to take tender digital pictures of saxifrage.
We could go together,
But like the seagulls flying in the rain overhead,
The weather is different
When more than one finger clicks the shutter.
Ink, says the merchant perched high on the cliff,
Is more vast than the sky, and he strides off
As we watch from below,
Trying to remember where we left the tripod.
And there it is, spread down the face
In a mascara of moisture and mold.
The brief instant when darkness
Is understood and worn like belief
Reflected outside us in the sheer wall.
Our two fingers making contact
On the small button, jostling,
And then the agonizing picoseconds
As the light spreads its ichor
And the rock changes plane.