Bright stabs of sun filter through the fig tree, the plants glow with every shade of green while a blue-sky circling buzzard looks for dinner. It all feels so alive. There’s gotta be a story here.

And a gardener is clipping and raking, as scents of fresh earth blend with cut lavender, wind chimes mix with rustling leaves, pink dust glints in the sun as it floats off a rose, and a white butterfly flutters amongst the lipstick salvia, burning red. I want to share the moment more than anything, but where’s the story.

Then a healthy sports car of some ilk spirits off in the distance. The soft sound of the ocean breeze mixes with a fountain in a neighbors yard, punctuated by a door slam and a crow as a hummingbird rips past my head. But there’s really no narrative here, and of what meaning?

The conversation on the street is unintelligible except for a laugh, a dog’s excited bark, followed by a child’s playful scream. I can’t take a picture of the changing light or the unseen smattering of a motorcycle, or the cool air on my face. But I know there’s a story here.