Sometimes when mist settles on the Mountains the cliffs appear suspended and we, too, seem to float above everything. Birds drift across the sky, a silent melody of black notes until that taut skin of light vibrates in a beat of white noise and we’re sliding into the void with the cockatoos and it could be 1908, or maybe 1920, just another present caught in a camera’s lens, a blue negative discarded in the mist.
© John Low