Something about it caught my attention. I don't know what, exactly, but I pulled the car off of the road and trekked into the meadow, carrying my camera bag and tripod.
I set down the bag and looked out. Yes. The angles of the mountains and hills, the boulder-strewn field and the hairpin turn, the textured-but-not-quite stormy clouds – they all seemed just right. I pulled out my camera and turned it on, caught up in the excitement of what I would do with this vista.
I don't know how long I was there, waiting for just the right light, just the right arrangement of clouds, moving first left, then right, then forward, then back, all the while experimenting with combinations of settings to get the exposure just right. I do know I noticed that enough time had passed that I wouldn't make it to my sister's for dinner. The thoughts of familial acrimony and broken promises along with the recriminations that would come after missing the meal that was supposed to be a mutual agreement to stop placing blame and put our arguments behind us vanished as I worked.
After… I don't know, hours I suppose… of thoughtful preparation I snapped a couple pictures, confident that they were just right, and headed home, realizing that I was late enough now that dinner would be over by the time I got there, so there was no point on continuing on.
At home I hurried to my computer and downloaded the pictures. They were sharp, beautifully exposed and yet for some reason they simply didn't excite me. I played with some adjustments briefly, but then gave it up as a wasted effort and deleted them all.
I suppose there's a moral there, if you look for it.