This was the sweet spot. Late afternoon, when the sun slanted her golden light across the land and made everything suddenly more beautiful and vibrant with color. Today blades of late summer hay glowed like they were rays of the sun, too.
Joe never missed afternoon light.
She held her position, crouched among the hay, heels digging into the soft earth. Camera ready. A butterfly was perched on one blade, its black wings specked with cornflower blue. Joe’s heart raced just a little faster, excited to catch the shot. Breathing quietly, she watched the butterfly flutter her wings. She slowed time and pushed down on the shutter.
And the neighbor’s six-year old son squealed from across the field. Joe’s focus buckled and she looked in the direction of the house. When she looked back, her butterfly was gone. Joe cursed under her breath. She cursed when her father sold that plot of land to city folk, and cursed again when they built a three-story summer home on it. A place to get away from the city, they said, cultured voices dripping with pretension. Joe hated city folk.
Maybe I still got the shot, she assured herself.