The Photographer

The Photographer

The cool breeze took my worries and fear with it as it passed me. The vague shape of a mountain could be seen, as the sun was setting behind it. It seemed a carpet of green lay underneath me, with the occasional dot of pink, or yellow. I grabbed my jet-black camera and dashed down the steps. This was not a moment I was going to waste. Getting to the field, I aimed it at a daffodil in bloom. The flowers were scattered around the area, but one side had more than the other, as if someone had sprinkled seeds on one side, then realised there weren't enough for the place. The satisfying click could be heard, and I stared in pride at my photo for a few minutes. A butterfly fluttered its wings to get to my daffodil, providing an array of colour. In that moment, I heard the chirping of a cricket, the tweeting of a bird, the swishing of the wind, then, finally, the click of my camera. The pale blue of the sky faded into a tranquil turquoise, then to a light yellow and to a serene pink. When I entered it again, my hotel room was washed with a golden light that seemed to make anything in its path glow with pleasure. I sighed as I looked out from my balcony once more. Nature was, is and will always be more beautiful than anything else in this world.