A few years back, I chose to quit taking photos. I've never been one to clutch physical belonging. It just felt right, at that point, that I free myself the escape of digital ones, as well. I recollect the day. It was a calm one — clear, blue sky; light breeze; and sufficiently warm to feel the warmth. It took us four hours to get to the highest point of the mountain, and when we did, the air — as usual — tasted natural however, on the double, extraordinary: more slender and cleaner, more liquid, like it was a piece of us. I recall the motivation that demolished it, as well. After strolling up to the summit, we had sat down to assimilate the view. There was a residential community beneath us, with a sparkling lake, and a scope of trees and a scarcely obvious diagram of houses. It was then that I saw the skimming bird — a unusual sight, since when you see them above you, they generally appear as though they are flying, and I figure they are the point at which you look down at them, as