The Bleating Heart
The photographer has been sleeping for the longest time, exhausted from traveling in a windstorm. She awakes at noon and leaves the village for a walk.
Seeking relief, shade, the photographer ventures into the woods. The path crumbles into a blanched gulley of dry soil and roots. Very steep. Her sandals, useless here, are pulled off. She feels the solidity and reassuring pain of the earth against her bare skin. The camera is heavy and bulky. She doubts her own intention to carry it there. Why cannot she just experience: there is no need to justify her presence there. Yet she feels that need.
We did not ask to be here. We did not choose this life we have, this planet.
And yet, somehow, we feel the need to justify.
The goat is small. Tiny. Utterly dark. Has she seen something? In her still darkness, she is aware of something. At times, she bleats into bright silence. She is lost, maybe. Or the photographer is lost.
The kid looks fragile, out of balance. Still, her bleating is firm. She...