Nothing is really. Or nothing I haven't shot a thousand times before. There are boats sitting picturesquely above their own reflections and quaint old boathouses ditto. There are Southern Rata trees with the sun behind them and a clear blue sky and a flat horizon. But nothing to point a camera at, especially.
I do notice, outside of the range of the gear I own, that seabirds are gathering in a great moving cloud above the water: Black Backed and Red Billed gulls, Terns and Shags. No doubt there are schools of small fish beneath them. I stop to watch and am fascinated by the shags. They swim with their necks protruding from the water but with the rest of their bodies submerged, bobbing along as though a ship full of champagne has gone down leaving thousands of corked bottles floating in the tide. Their legs are at the backs of their bodies in the way evolution has crafted all birds which swim under water as opposed to on top of it. Through the clear sea I watch them duck and weave amongst the seaweed in pursuit of some small prey. They don't photograph easily - my shortcoming, not theirs - so I take a picture of the seaweed instead
Lent. When we remind ourselves of the interconnectedness of life and death. When we acknowledge that the gift of living comes simultaneously with the guarantee of dying. When we undertake some small death to help ourselves know at depth the utter joy and beauty of life