Click

It was true that the sunrise reflected off the mountain’s concave surface in waves of purple and pink.

But superimposed in front of the mountain was a line of bodies,

A perfect line along the ice cold metal railing,

Each clutching a camera in a death grip, aimed defiantly at the sun.

The first rays trickled slowly out from the clouds, then began to spring up at exponentially increasing speeds,

And they would have blinded us all had we not been shielded by the lenses of our video recorders.

The texture hidden moments before in the dark concave of the volcano came alive,

Revealing polka dot spots of rocks and chocolatey layers of browns and yellows.

But just as the bottom tip of the hot sphere separated from the purple puff of clouds,

The cold line of bodies turned their backs,

And began to walk away.

They had done their deed,

Captured the sun in its naked pose, with nowhere to hide, 

Stolen a piece of the scene for themselves,

Pocketed it, tucked it away in a memory.

They got what they came for, and they left, returned to their warm metal bubbles in the parking lot, for it was cold.

I stay, and I watch.

I watch to see how far the Sun will rise, if He will change His colors, do a dance, or go back to bed beneath the cloud blankets.

For maybe He is tired of this show, every day, the same routine, the same display, the same ingratitude.

But no; He stays, bold and golden.

He stays to warm us with His honey rays, to comfort us with light and energy.

Frozen in the sky – no choice – solid, proud,

There for us whether we notice Him or not.

If only to light the mountain pictures of desperate tourists seeking memories,

To convince themselves they know Nature.

I stare at the Sun; He looks back at me, searing my glassy blue eyes with His gaze.

I breathe, I try to see the dancing rocks below, the greys floating like smoky rivers forever into the horizon.

I say goodbye with one more longing glance, knowing that five minutes is not enough to know Him or to understand.

Maybe I’ll take one more picture to remember, or maybe I’ll let my camera slip from my fingers over the jagged mountain edge.