The blue of the sky.
The wind; a slight breeze.
Here and there a bird is singing.
I walk to the little shed, pass the rabbits of wood that my mother has bought for the summerhouse, carrying the woodbasket.
I unlock the little shed and step into a scent of dried wood, of air being trapped inside a small space.
I reach out and pick up a few logs ofwood from the stack and place them in the basket.
The simplicity of this moment fills me up with joy.
The sensation of the rough wood against the softness of my skin.
The colour and variations of patterns in the little logs draw in my eye.
I can’t help but reach for my camera, hanging diagonally from my shoulder, and capture this moment.
A moment caught on the ever-progressing filmroll of eternity.