the setting sun paints clouds with a broad palette, bright white to ink black
morning light catches the moss, and i see it for the first time
My walk is in the early hours, in dawn's buttery light. There's a gold glint to all that's pale, whether a wall of white or waters of a placid lake or eucalyptus trunks or on the waving Pampas grass or on the robes of monks. And by the time I've lost that light, the walking hour is done. And I'll be looking forward to when next the day is dun.
the river churns; lit by the mid-day sun -- its foam glows
sun-warmed rooftop, clouds down in the valley -- i breathe in bright heights
red rocks warm from the morning sun lounge in messy stacks
An hour of light per day
squeezed between those broad shoulders.
One hour of sunlight —
in the good seasons,
when there was sun.
The villagers’ days pivoted on that hour.
Whatever is the opposite of a siesta, they lived it.
an hour of frenetic love…
of the outdoors
of the sun
of love, itself.
Outsiders found the place dismal & gloomy,
but they never loved the sun
like those villagers love the sun.