Abandoned roads - Jos Lammers

Eighteen
The next evening we stay on the east side of Yosemite
National Park. We have a room in a wooden motel bordering
June Lake and by the end of the day we are overlooking
dark trees and azure colored water. When light and
dark are hanging in precise balance, a quiet man crosses
the flat stretch of grass in front of our porch. He peeks
into the illuminated little screen of his digital camera.
The water. The silent mountains around it. The pine trees
by now have almost turned black as dark sentries. Now
I see what he’s here for. A deep blue colored bird with a
black forelock, about the size of a jackdaw, flies in circles
in the last ray of sunlight that falls on the azure green
water. The blue of its feathers lights up each time it makes
a turn, and makes a dark line on its graceful way back.
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