Hum-by-yi-ya (Native chanting). On an overcast day, I set my sights, drawn by the camera to capture (some of you are confused, I don’t mean “capture” like with a net, I mean it in a sense that I have captured a picture of what I see. Drink that in.) beauty and beckoned by some magic resting delicately and in other ways on the side of a cliff in a smoggy, dirty city. But even still, some hopeful flowers (hoping they wouldn’t be killed by the pollution from the factories) grew through dead wood chips and kissed the sky and my lens.
By these, my precious photos, might I learn that even when trees have fallen and lie dead on the forest floor, they can still have growth (albeit fungus) or be made into works of art. Though stone is lifeless and cold, may I always remember that it can become steps to climb to greet a new love or be built into almost human statues. Bless the flow’rs, the tall grasses and the ladybirds that make me think I’m still alive in a dead city.
Not sure who Jen is, but someone hearts her. Common name.