At dusk, one daffodil weeps, moisture and stamen belonging to one head and trumpet among hundreds. Runners and wanderers and dog exercisers in Abbo's Alley wander by, none noticing what the camera catches.
For me that's the delight of taking snapshots, capturing what's there but unseen.
For me, that's the delight of a great poem, like Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro":
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
This flounced daffodil: an old lady, weeping with joy.