All that Light
Today out in the meadow the sun lit up the blonding autumn stalks of grass and the whole view looked like a Van Gough presented under fluorescents. The few flowers still in bloom glowed out from the bright field like fireflies behind a line drying sheet. Any birds I saw flitted in the tree shade just out of the painting’s frame worried, perhaps, that they too might wash out under all the light in the meadow.
I would like to be a mystic, a prophet, some kind of pagan priestess who spends her life seeing God in all that light. This morning it seemed that the dark corners of the world should be visible, but I actually saw less, not more, in all that brightness.
I walked the meadow’s edge a quarter mile to a small pond to look for turtles but the water was all dried up. And still a Harrier’s Hawk and a Great Blue Heron stood like sentinels looking down into the small bowl of earth that now stood empty as though any moment a fish might make an appearance.
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