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You get that small window between growing twilight and the electric dawn:
When the sun kisses concrete peaks and valleys, and shadows wait, shifting in their corners, to pounce.
When the light is golden and thick like the air on your tongue and trails of sweat down your back.
That is when.
You spring into action. Make a frame, then another, and another and another.
The minutes tick by and the world fades from a blush to a bruise.
On the cusp of evening’s dusty blue, street lamps snap on, and the night is gone.
You feel, for a moment, the lament of that poet of lost boys and country lanes, grieving for the fall of paradise.
You drag yourself and your 15 nothing frames home, and hope that one of them carries the magic end of day – the demon that has been summarily banished.
In the lift on the way up, your kindly neighbour asks “aiyoh everyday go and take picture, got so many things to take ah?”
Singapore, Oct 2020
charlene winfred 