A whole night of organised chaos
batteries running out on lapels.
lone cigarettes lit in corners
frustration and enthusiasm in alternate waves. 
The crew squawks louder
competing with birds as dawn sets.
12 hours turn to 14, then 16
no one blinks an eye, bereft.

The sun takes centre stage, 
pushing away ideal grey,
the director looks on in horror
DOP chimes in, and swears.

A singular hush consumes us all
we look up, and the sky is suddenly
speckled with paint. 
awe gives way to frantic shot call
The moment passes, 
just as a nearby walkie crackles –
“Silence on set”.