Bombay Hook

Today, for a little while, I immersed myself in the beauty of desolation. In the last hours of daylight, under a complex sky falling quickly, I passed among bare trees and snarls of dormant bushes and vines, and amidst fingers and bodies of water. The air was quiet as only winter air can be, except for ducks and geese, whose corporate launch into flight echoed thunderously as I trod nearby. As I drove home from Bombay Hook, the sunset held onto the day tencaciously, and well after sunset, reds and oranges continued to touch the deepening dusk. During such times I feel most myself. These are times when thought, feeling, and environment begin to merge, and the earth seems to move with me while unconcerned for me. I then wish that everyone I loved were there with me to experience this uneventful consummation; or, rather, I wish I could lead them there individually and then disappear so they can experience without the distraction of me. There are subtleties to being alone that cannot be shared. There are stories that have no words -- only color and emotion that tumble together. There is brokenness that cannot be fixed, but must be left alone, to hopefully be healed in its own time.


from the observation tower 


shearness pool