Even the trees shine for the tiny players skating their heart out below.
Is this light, this sound, what he will call to mind in new years to come? Is it that we somehow feel the presence of the First Light in these displays that we cheer and revel?
The scrape and scramble, the glare of the light and a frigid night sky. On a Canadian ice rink, glimpses into the bigger swell of time, memory, and perhaps a bigger presence.
What place could, within its very silence, make room for the act of reading and absorbing the divinity of words?
"How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky, how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you, even your eyes, even your imagination.”
You will not die of a broken heart, yet the quality of hope has been asphyxiated by this same sturdy edge. A gust of wind and the green shrub sends some of its scent through the open frame.
Mist: the natural element most closely related to mystery. What knowingness is obscured in this early light of day?
Rows of green on rows of brown leading up into the sky.
Red apples wait for harvest. The crunchy sweetness drifting through the air.
Dense fog descends over the barren rows. The promise of bringing forth fruit seems distant, unimaginable, and possibly unattainable.
Strips of light green, brown, dark green. All fitting together in what seems like an orderly fashion. A patchwork quilt.
Frolicking cows free in the meadow. Blue skis with cotton clouds.