“Believe us, they say, it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.” —Mary Oliver
Walking along the little creek near McIntosh Lake this morning, the air brisk, sky dense with clouds, head down, brow heavy with rumination—I jerked upright suddenly, startled by golden sparks of lightning flashing across my field of vision.
No, I wasn’t having a seizure. A flock of goldfinches chased each other from tree to tree, pausing briefly, little bursts of color, zipping here and there. Such beauty! All thought ceased. I became all eye, all ear, all here.
No, I wasn’t having a seizure. A flock of goldfinches chased each other from tree to tree, pausing briefly, little bursts of color, zipping here and there. Such beauty! All thought ceased. I became all eye, all ear, all here.
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