Driving home: It was after 7 p.m. and I was driving to my apartment. As I turned left onto the black macadam road leading there and crested the hill a few seconds later, I was driving into the setting sun. It blazed brightness beyond description. Pines and hardwoods at the bottom of the hill where the river ran. Thick and green, the timber contrasted with the sun, where it sank slowly golden like a coin into the slot of the brown river. A visual poem. No work of man, this.