And There Were Colors

Sometimes I think what it would be like to be blind after having had sight.

This evening as I went for a walk (it was very, very slow, as I’ve an ankle injury, but I can get along slowly without crutches now). I walked. And saw. Perhaps the better word is, I beheld.

Small things, yes?

No. Not really.

Not when you see them with gratitude.

Gold, halcyon, roaring.

And the way oak limbs bend towards the light like old men’s skeletal frames.

And the way cicadas thrum and the last doves streak gray-winged rockets across the sky solo, and bats flitter seemingly half-mad after moths.

But one must see. Truly see.

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