A Sunday morning; the cold winter sun footprinting the carpet; wearing warm wool; the tea green and the fruit peeled; John Updike’s latest exceeding expectations; playlist pumps Tal Wilkenfeld, tactile and mellow on her Sadowsky strings; my five senses dovetail. Brain sends a wave when a particular soundbite agrees with the flash of sunlight on a crystal vase – synchronicity or synchrony? Whateva. It’s a sunny Sunday in winter and I’ll take what I have.
I heard the waterfall before I saw it. I allowed its thundering tenor to leech me in along the nebulous path, mud sucking at my bare feet. Then between dark birch branches a bright movement shimmered opaquely. It focused first as a covert cloud, then as serial stalactites sloping and sliding downwards. I finally viewed its full might Continue reading