A drop of melted, frost crystal on the end of a catkin.
Repetition is part of the rhythm of life. Every Christmas we seem to take the same photographs of each other; in every season the same natural features attract us as signs of change; every day the rising and setting sun repeats it routine. I think to myself as I take a photograph, I've done this before, or somebody else surely has. And then I ask myself: does it matter? It's the seeing that counts, the registration of the event. There must be minute difference between this time and that, this angle and that angle, bigger differences sometimes, but usually some small thing to note, some flutter in the direction of evolution. Then I think of those prints by Andy Worhol, where the same image is repeated over and over again, side by side. What differences are there between the images? Or the images on a sheet of postage stamps, straight off the press? Identical except that that each occupies a different position on the sheet. And come to think of it, I am practically certain that I have posted something very similar to this thought before. To paraphrase Walt Whitman : Do I repeat myself? Very well then I repeat myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.
In the Grove a little girl rides her bike helped by her mother. Suddenly she is on her own. "Well done, Sophie," he mother's voice rings through the damp air, "Well done." And Sophie? Sophie has learnt the taste of freedom.