You don't see the indurated water and sand that stung my feet with the heat they leased from the sun. You don't see the new friend I made before breakfast, or the white markings on either side of their face where something was lost or given back to a body with inarticulate ideas of its own. You don't see the neighbour who startled them into leaving seconds after I earned some small portion of their trust. You don't hear the sounds that man made from the other side of a fence that keeps us from killing each other. Grass brushed like a battered snare drum. The brittle bones of fallen branches snapping underfoot. All you can make out is daylight masquerading as dusk and a green mass in the bottom left corner of the frame. A hungry weed blurred into a bouquet of blinding light. I call it an accidental self-portrait.