to unwrap a present

I find a picture

“let me go over there to see if there’s a picture . . . “

I announce, and I go there,

and there is a picture waiting for me,

as if each is a present that I just need to unwrap,

today a particular juxtaposition 

of light and water and rock and wood

within my eye and open to my shutter,

an angle, a take, a frame

that I hold a moment, 

beauty, rightness, a photo,

some things shout of the picture inherent:

a vista, a waterfall,

 a sunrise,





 a sunset,

the smile of a toddler,

the twinkle in an eye,

though even with the shout,

choice and timing still matter, 

a photographer needs an eye

and needs to train the eye

to see if there’s a picture,

and, if there is, figure how to capture it

before it is gone,

or before we’re gone,

at times I search for a particular picture,

for example, I looked for years for snowy high mountains

above luxuriant flowers, and one day I found just what I wanted,

today I found a still pool of water with an intriguing reflection in it,

icicles above a dropping creek, 

and club moss assertive

with dappled sun and yesterday’s light snow below them,

I often check if there’s a picture, and often I find and unwrap it.

by Henry H. Walker

December 20, ’15