We all try to capture, in a picture. In hundreds of pictures. Humans out in droves, smitten with trees.
I laugh but I do it, too: aim my camera at one frothy pink cluster after another, delirious at the beauty of it.
I know the pictures will render them flat, stripping away the enchantment of the whole scene, which is in their dimension, their presence. But I can't help it, I am compelled, swooning. Clicking.
It's like being under a lacy waterfall, a lilting, living veil.
I walk through it, aware and existing and enthralled, and still I can't get enough. Is this why the pictures? To take it home and keep a part of it, no matter how small and approximate?
Even on our bike ride home, I am reluctant to quit the chase, drawn in by the honeyed light through the branches, caught in a blizzard of falling petals when the wind gusts over the river. How can we not feel beneficently blessed?
The moment is already passing, cameras be damned. The trees are leafing out, the streets look like they've been littered with the most elegant confetti, such a party as it has been.
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