This is a picture I did not take of driving down Albert Street at dusk, through drizzle and thickening fog, watching the seemingly endless arrivals of the local murder of crows coming in to roost in the black, skeletal branches of the big maple trees along the street.
This is a picture I did not take of a group of golfers out on the links in California in November, preparing to putt, their green surrounded by a flock of Canada Geese.
This is also a picture I did not take of an elderly Indian woman at security at SFO, wearing a gorgeous and elaborately patterned blue and gold sari, with worn grey men’s sport socks peeking out beneath her hem.
This is a picture I did not take of two little girls holding open a birthday card that plays the Hamster Dance, spinning and bopping around the living room in perfect imitations of the original internet-based dancing hamsters, even though they’d never seen the website and it is much, much older than they are.
This is also a picture I did not take of my brother, walking down the yard towards the bush, in his left hand a .22 rifle, and on the right holding hands with his two-year-old daughter, in blonde pigtails and a pink sundress.
This is a picture I did not take of walking among and past throngs of people around Roy Thompson Hall, many of them bedecked in orange, as Steven Page sang Hallelujah over the outdoor speakers, and Jack Layton’s face smiled down on everyone from video screens.
This is a picture I did not take of a middle-aged woman in a burgundy convertible Miata, driving down King St. in Waterloo on a warm evening, with a wood and wire cage containing several chickens balanced behind the seats.
We’ve had an awfully wet May. Apparently no one received the May flowers memo. Ahh well. Spring is here, though. I finally got myself out for a bit of a walkabout — camera in hand, even — and hit the park.
The buns are mostly for Sherry, since pictures don’t aggravate allergies. My favourite is the wet grass.
This is a picture I did not take of a group of people walking quickly through the rain toward the doors of the local funeral home. All dressed head to toe in black, and protected by an umbrella as yellow as the daffodils in my kitchen.