present calling

Maxfield Parrish. Rene Magritte. They painted the sky I'm watching this evening.

There's a particular glow that comes about when the sky has a certain percentage of cloud cover--and tonight i find myself beckoned to the back porch by such a light. To the east, the Twin Buttes catch that glow and hold it golden in their sandstone cliffs while purple-soled pink clouds slowly move westward, morphing into discarded insect exoskeletons, backflipping mermaids, and pinwheeling stars. Meanwhile, a silouette of a tatter-winged bird darts across the blue, and the sound of wind tickles the pine trees (i can see it, though i cannot feel the wind on my own skin). To the west, the sun sinks slowly--it is only the first of july--and sends sundogs in its wake, rainbow clouds skirting the horizon like prisms. a hummingbird flies directly into my view of this kalidescoping scene and hovers still as death, with paradoxical wings moving nearly as fast as light. whatever came before this moment doesn't matter, for now...for now.