The view from back porch was obscured by castles of white oak; skyscrapers of the woodland stretching skyward to caress then sun with their leafy touch. Everything was so still. Clusters of amber freckled the forest’s carpet, nut-brown with a crunch to match – if any creature decided to venture through the barked labyrinths on such a nipping autumn morning, they would certainly be congratulated.
The forest called out to her, ancient in its age and as old as Adam but she decided to photograph it, keep the memory of this lush and earnestly decaying season eternal. She focused with her lens – the blur jarring her vision momentarily before focusing on a mutation of gnarled boughs, their texture as decrepit and withered as their age, flakes in chunks peeled from the bark like sandpaper – it was beautiful.
A soft beep echoed to announce the short click – a soft smile gracing her lips as she admired the view in front of her, as always, never quite boasting such pride in the processed image.
Such scenes, mutations, of nature were by far, her favourite specimens to capture. Yet, if she were to examine the images she placed such pride, she would perhaps see it differently. Why did she never inspect them? Surely, it were logical. Perhaps it was because such scenes boasted slight abnormalities, and not of nature but of a far more sinister nature. A shape that the camera would sensitise unlike her own unreliable vision, a collection of colour that appeared far too explicit to be a mere anomaly of autumn. There was a reason the woodland was permanently cloaked in silence – the eyes that constantly observed through leafy tendrils, watching and waiting.
Fascinating that when the camera clicks, that brief mile-second that may as well be a blink, how you can miss it sneaking past you on your porch and through your door.
Now you are being observed.