rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Early this morning, the clouds which cling to the mountains this time of year like fluffy meringue topping were flushed by the still-hidden sun to a translucent red of delightfully lurid shade. December's sunrises are frequently more colorful than its sunsets. As much as I dislike trying to get to sleep after light has come into the sky, I am often tempted by the early premonitions of dawn to remain awake to see the full bloom of morning. Today, I managed to resist, in part because I sensed that the particular color already on display could not possibly be bettered. Thus, I got to sleep before any birds began their songs. Of whether or not that red glow effected my dreams, I have no memory. I woke what seemed a mere moment later, though a full nine hours of oblivion had passed. I've quit pretending that anything of interest is going to happen in what remains of the afternoon.

There has, however, been an abundance of sunlight, so I went out to absorb a full dose of it during its final hour. Though the air has remained cool, the day was sufficiently mild and bright to coax partly open the small purple flowers of the sourgrass. They closed again as I stood watching the varied fractal forms of cirrus clouds drift eastward. A few dozen of those tiny flying insects who like to gather above the bush near the porch were out, too. In their vertical dance, rising higher, then lower, individuals falling off to one side or the other, vanishing into the bush, then returning, the whole group endlessly bouncing and circling in some intricate series of patterns, they remind me of a bubbling fountain. Silhouetted against the evening sky, they give the appearance of being somehow compelled to trace the design of something that isn't there, and I briefly fancy them to be a cult of insects who worship water and attempt to invoke it through a modeling ritual. But they are like the clouds, and the trees, and my own eye perceiving them, manifestations of some mathematical formula working itself out to an unseen end, or maybe no end at all.

I look at the window now, and gray dusk has fallen, and the set sun has brought no color but a faint golden glow to the western sky. The birds have ceased to chirp, and the stream sent running down the road verge by a lawn sprinkler up the block shines with the reflected last light of the sky. Dimly, I see the insect fountain still bubbling above the bush.
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