I have a good friend who loves bird photography. He goes bird-watching and taking photos every weekend, and he has kept this hobby for five years.
Once, he waited quietly with his camera for several hours in the woods by the river in Shanghai. Unexpectedly, he encountered an owl at a close distance. Overjoyed, he immediately pressed the shutter to take the photo, and shared it with me right away, saying how incredibly lucky he was. I rejoiced in his joy.
Looking at the photo he sent, the owl was so clear that even the patterns on the tips of its tail feathers were visible. His messages kept popping up, still filled with uncalmed excitement: “It was only two meters away from me when it landed! I didn’t even dare to breathe heavily, for fear of scaring it away!” “Look at how its claws grip the branch—isn’t it so energetic?” I replied to each message one by one, and my mind was filled with the image of him holding the camera, holding his breath and concentrating. All those weekends spent waiting in the woods through dawn and dusk, all those times his eyes turned red from staying up late to wait for a bird—turns out, they were all paving the way for this moment of luck.
Later, I often thought of this photo. It wasn’t because the owl was so rare; it was because I knew that this “luck” was hidden with his deep passion for bird photography: it was the carefulness of checking the migratory routes of birds in advance every weekend, the persistence of enduring loneliness while waiting, and the uncontrollable delight in his eyes when he finally encountered the bird. And being able to share this joy through the screen, I felt as if I was right there with him, touching that little, glittering happiness belonging to passion, in the morning light of the woods.