Saturday morning the sky was partly filled with clouds and fractured light, and I woke up unsettled by some nameless anxiety that had taken me in my sleep, so I went the Carl S English Gardens at the Ballard Locks to take pictures of flowers. I don’t know if it is all the rain or just because they are punctuations of color amid the grey days, but the spring flowers here seem to glow from inside when they catch the cloud filtered light.
In the gardens I push my bike around, back and forth trying to catch the shifting light, indecisive; should I go that way or double back over there? I lay my bike down and I crouch in the dirt and hold the camera at odd angles. No one is around yet and it is mostly quiet. Robins sing and seagulls cry and occasionally there is the prehistoric squawk of the blue herons tussling and nest building. Two-and-a-half hours pass in this liminal haze. I don’t remember what I was thinking when I woke up because I’m not thinking it anymore.