The woman does not move. Her idea moves.
In a series of ripples, quickly and with supreme
assurance, derivative light expends itself, the idea
of light. She is gathering her scarf into fleshy folds
of yellow-white twill, slowly flagging its own unclocked
motion. There were many pictures to make this one,
as they say Flaubert read 1,500 novels to produce just one.
So this chance argues against chance, and the moment
that was perfect was perfect only by chance, the one-ant-chance
on the hill. One picture is the idea of one picture, though
there are negatives stuffed in envelopes that say
one picture is a lucky dance in a moony crook of field.