I felt indolent. Not the lazy feeling of I don’t want to do anything; rather, I had a sense that life should flow through me, instead of the other way ‘round.

In the morning I sat quietly as the sun roiled over mountains and the sky’s subtle colors softened to warmer hues.

I watched leaves waft gently from branch to ground, laying a carpet of yellow-gold. A cat eyed the tumbling foliage with suspicion, as if the leaves were devious, painted birds.

The day parceled itself into memorable hours, whittled the hours into baroque moments, and sifted what was left into nascent reminiscences.

And then, when the sun had almost arced beyond the western horizon, the sky displayed the first chill of dark blue, which bruised further to plum; and, finally, the day slipped into the obscurity of an almost-winter night.

There is a sublime mystery behind the veil of perception.