The Keepers of Magic Time

He would love the reeds hissing now in this late Summer breeze and the sky blue and the fields wide awake.  The butterflies dancing with the light.  But that's not my job.  I must wait.  Wait until the light slows and the land cools in the ginger fall. 

I've made a bed of the warmest brown leaves my homestead these days of paid grace.  Lying in the fields studying a canvas of quiet variation.  It may be the greatest job I have ever had.  The farmhouse etched into the furthest edges of my shot has been the only sign of civilisation for the while.  It sits in silent opposition to my world, a thumbnail on nature.  My society is the cricket, thicket, crow, and crop now.  

'Mr. Malick wants magic hour.  Your job is to capture it.  Each day for three weeks.  Wait for it.  Catch it.  Then you can go home.  He'll pay you 5000 bucks for your images.  Got it?  Good, now go get it!'

When magic hour comes, I'm electrified by the spell it casts over our landscapes and the interaction it has with the living.  All the world's passivity collapses in this seemingly somnambulant moment.   Birds sing louder.  My camera shoots faster.  Wind blows wilder and freer .  My heart beats harder.

A grey sparrow appears at my side each day in the seconds before the red indigo shower.  I've heard the renowned director has his spies.  I become more industrious in the sparrow's company.  Something is watching over me.  The sparrow stands and waits.

'Mr. Malick always shoots at magic hour.  Every day, all around the world, there are a select group of cameramen in place, ready to seize the moment, to  secure a place in Heaven.  These people are his keepers of magic time.  You are now one of them.  You are now a keeper of magic time.'

Here it comes.  The silver beams of daylight's abstraction slice through the frame and the world above glows in a dark orange mask.  Clouds are pink then yellow then green.  The structure of our universe is for a moment dissolved in a manic miasma of change.  Creatures of nature long hidden become visible in the sparkling vision, revelations of shape and colour.  A festival is brought to the soil from above and the earth sings unintelligible songs of joy in a flickering instant.

And then it's gone.

And the sparrow too.

I gather my equipment together and make my way back to the hotel, happy that I've done well for Mr. Malick.  I've kept his magic time. 

I really hope he uses this stuff in his film about sparrows.