I take the same photo every year. Every spring and every autumn I point my camera upwards. Every spring I feel the urge to do this. This is a ritual, an offering.

I see white where there was once bare black like a rush of blood, like the first gasp of air. I point my camera and it comes out white and I wait and... Perhaps it will never come? from the fog of bare white slowly emerges Blue.

Pale and bleached. Then the branches. Slowly, the springtime gathers momentum. Spring always comes.

 The infinite smoke of endless blossom floats into the blue of the sky.

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