July 28: End of Day
Kristen Lindquist
As I type this, a cardinal is vigorously whistling, "TEW too TEW too TEW too" outside the kitchen window, coming by for his end of the day feeder visit. Out the other kitchen window, the female hummingbird samples the bee balm blossoms, as we've watched her do for the past several nights as we've sat at the table eating dinner. She'll dip into a red flower or two, withdraw, then turn and hover right in front of the window, looking in at us. I don't know if she sees her reflection, finds us fascinating, wants us to find her fascinating (which we do, of course), or what.
The sinking sun, in a slightly different place than it was this time of night a month ago, or even a week ago, shines through a tapestry of green onto the river. The river itself is a mere thread of murmuring water at this point in summer, but there's enough water there to cast a glare where the sunlight hits it. That patch of light seems like an ephemeral fragment of summer, caught shining for just a few blessed moments, flashing like a signal mirror an urgent message about time and the river flowing...
River catches light
but can't hold it, keeps flowing.
Sun goes on setting.
The sinking sun, in a slightly different place than it was this time of night a month ago, or even a week ago, shines through a tapestry of green onto the river. The river itself is a mere thread of murmuring water at this point in summer, but there's enough water there to cast a glare where the sunlight hits it. That patch of light seems like an ephemeral fragment of summer, caught shining for just a few blessed moments, flashing like a signal mirror an urgent message about time and the river flowing...
River catches light
but can't hold it, keeps flowing.
Sun goes on setting.