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Halfway down the street,I notice the wind dying down, the snow slowing its fall.
The world is quieting.
I don’t know if the storm has passed, or if this is just a break in the winter pounding—which is sonota good reference to have running through my mind after Kitchen Counter-Gate.
But the slowing blizzard means that I feel comfortable pulling my camera out from beneath my jacket and framing a shot in my mind, snapping off a couple of photos to test the light and exposure and shutter speed.
Steve huffs out a sigh and sinks onto his belly, head dropping onto his paws, hood from his jacket half falling forward to cover his adorably smooshed-up face.
He doesn’t otherwise bug me as I fuss.
Probably because the squirrels are in hiding and there aren’t any plastic bags blowing in the wind—or maybe because he’s been out with me shooting enough times to understand this process goes a lot faster when he behaves.
I tweak the settings, take a couple more shots then look at the viewfinder.
Nose wrinkling, I glare at the tree, thinking it’s not quite right but unable to put my finger on what’s wrong.
I shift to the side, letting the leash out so Steve doesn’t have to move with me.
And I keep shooting.
Better.
Close to perfect.
Just not…perfect.
Another shift, a little less exposure, increasing the shutter speed, and—
Then I have it.
That perfect moment.
The one frame that captures exactly what’s in my heart—frost and snow and branches weighed down by the weight of Mother Nature, by the weight of the world, but not all hope is lost. There’s a sliver of light that glimmers through the snow still falling, that sends the snow clinging to the pine needles sparkling like glitter.
So much white.
It’s all around, from street level to the treetops.
But there’sso muchcolor in this white— hints of blue from hidden pockets of ice, the pristine, crisp bone-white that’s gathered at the tippy tops of the trees, grayish shadows from where the snow has mounded up unevenly and created small pockets of darkness below, green from the pine needles peeking out beneath their frosty coverings.
Together it all forms a storybook showing of a Winter Wonderland.
And once I see those different shades of white, the beauty in the range of coloration, in the variations of Mother Nature herself, I fall into my work.
I lose track of time and space.
I lose track of myself.
Twenty
Lake
I take a shower,locking down the sliver of guilt as I stroke myself to completion, knees shaking after an angry orgasm.
Angry because I’m an idiot.
Angry because it doesn’t do anything to make my dick softer.
