I tracked the cockatoo through the viewfinder.
Adjusted the aperture. Waited for the wings to spread.
It flew. I fired.
Then stood there reviewing the screen while the bird disappeared into the banksia.
The morning had been different.
No settings. No angles. Just watching.
I held my breath when they called.
But somewhere between arrival and afternoon, wonder became work.
Every sighting a task. Every miss a failure.
The eye behind the lens stopped seeing.
I came home with a memory card full of almost.
Blurred wings. Empty branches.
Proof I was chasing what I'd already lost.
The camera kept everything.
My memory almost kept nothing.
