It's as if the clouds that stipple the sky have been flicked across it by a giant paintbrush, spattering them in rows that gradually merge into a splash of light. The sun still hovers just above the horizon, burning white, surrounded by a haze of gold. That will become more definite, and flare up just before dark. The houses are dark already, black outlines of roofs. The tall palms rising over the roofs are black too. This scene could almost be night in the desert. Instead it is my familiar street, made strange by the last burst of light before the dark is complete. Does it matter that only I stand here seeing this? (Seeing it alone, unshared.) No, not any more. I tell it to myself. I show it to myself. Yes, I take a photo; I write about it. But I am the one standing and looking, here and now, in the solid street – before the writing, before the photo. I am the one in my brain, aware of beauty. I am the one behind these gazing eyes. It is good that someone sees. This consciousness is pleased that I, here, now, see.
a last bird chorus
the sun drops