I sit outside in the sudden dusk with a summer storm brewing overhead. It feels as though I am wrapped in a wet, woolen blanket, and breathing becomes a conscious act in the thick, squall-scented air. The neighbor’s porchlight blinks like a firefly between the trees. My camera and I are eavesdropping on the silent, electric communication between thunderheads. I record one fleeting thread of their furtive exchange:
In my ill-suited role as Il Paparazzo, I feel responsible for the short burst of temper that follows.