and son fuel the airplane. I look around and see
clumps of wildflowers. I feel my fingers tingle
to pick up my camera and press the shutter button.
So, I do just that. I set my Nikon to aperture priority
and skooch down to get as close as possible
to the flowers. It's a cloudy day so unlikely I'll be able
to catch any bokeh but the backgrounds will be soft
and blurry, at least. I look through the viewfinder,
press my finger on the shutter button halfway until
I hear the little ding that signals I've got my flower
in focus, then click. I kneel in the grass. I lie down.
I click and click capturing yellow, lacy white, pink,
gold, purple, tiny daisies with their timeless questions:
he loves me, he loves me not. I marvel at the beauty
to be found on the side of a paved parking lot in the state
of Maine, on a brooding Saturday in August. I head back
to the car, my camera heavy from all that sweetness.