|The indomitable brightness of a grandson's smile|
A network of converging smile lines on the bridge of the nose, the joyous overbite...
|My view pond side on Sunday|
The water's clear and surface dimpled like a golf ball. I always picture this as a similar size to Thoreau's pond although likely that one's much, much bigger. Amid the wet-loving cattails - “bulrush” in British English - and under a still giving 6pm sun. I thought at this hour, suppertime, there'd be nobody here but everybody and their brother is death-sick of chill temps and wants to spend every minute outdoors, preferably pond, pool, lake, or sea-side, depending on availability. There's something about water. So there are fish catchers and hikers just around the corner.
Later in my own back yard it's seven awe-thirty and the light cascades off the high bark of the tower-pine. Majestic in its inaccessibility, at least to mortals without Jack Beanstalk ladders. It sways in the wind, to and fro, and it looks Hilton Headish, or maybe that's just the headiness of three days off work talking. Long-lit days with time off work usually means Hilton Head.
Looking at those fifty+ foot pines I see parts of creation in my own backyard that I cannot examine closely without the renting of heavy equipment. I can touch or minutely explore maybe ten percent (the base of the tree only) of something I “own”, at least technically speaking. I'm not sure how much I feel the owner of a plant so tall that I really can only experience a small bit of it. But I have the pleasure of its inaccessibility, much as I feel when I relish the ocean.