November 17th, 2013

caillebotte_man at his window

Lit

I find a spot where, a hundred feet off, there are two pines between myself and the patch of cloud-mottled sky where the moon has lately risen. This morning other pines shaded the back yard for hours, and it seemed the sun would never reach the leaf-strewn lawn. The brilliance behind them made it impossible to look at them. The pines back-lit by the moon I can stare at. I can see the pairing of delicacy and strength in the form and void of them, and the tapestry of glowing clouds beyond, and the indistinct form of the moon, the emerging curve of it perfect.

I don't even mind that the air is chilly enough that I shiver. It is still and fresh and the night is quiet. I gaze at the trees and watch the slow climb of the moon, branch by branch, until it has nearly freed itself. Then the clouds thicken and the black lace of the trees grows blacker and the moon dims. Perhaps it will brighten again once it has climbed higher, or perhaps the clouds will continue to thicken and hide it all night. I'll be back to see, as long as I remain awake. I don't want to miss a wonder should one occur.


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