The Front, Queenstown
My feet dangle from the wall of this place I found. The sun behind me lets them cast their shadow on the gravelly lakeside. The wind moves around them, catching the inner arches of both, somehow. It must be undecided on its direction.
I hear the pootlings of a nearby guitarist. As he or she finger-picks quickly, the seagulls and the sea provide percussion. The sea complements the guitarist more than the seagulls do. My hair moves across my eyes as if the wind is trying to regain my attention.
I only have a couple more days to soak up this view. I wonder if I will ever believe its beauty that still feels fictional in its intensity. If it’s fictional, it’s cleverly done. I can see no tears or joins in the backdrop. No stitches or staples.
On each side of the lake, trees stretch out as far as the flat land will let them to shield this cove. Where they stop, the rugged but kind mountains take over the protective function.
I am unable to imagine this place in any other season or in any other time. My disbelief continues.
My cynicism is gratified for a moment as a black speedboat imitating the shape of a killer whale moves across the horizon.
I have two more days to digest this scene. I hope I do and I hope I don’t.
Words and photograph by @embriar













