The Golden Hours
The day is as soft as velvet. Except for the bubbling creek, the only sound is the splash of raindrops on the fallen leaves. I pause between steps to listen. I feel the breadth of the air stretching all the way to the distant hills.
The scent of the wet earth and of the leaves is a sweet perfume, light and pungent. I breathe it in and as I exhale, I see my breath form a slight vapor in the cold air and then dissolve.
A few miles down the road, the stores bulge with fevered shoppers. The wheels of their metal carts clatter on the tiles as they push their holiday agendas down the aisles. Price readers beep. Children plead for candy.
But here, in the midst of the golden hours, the glow of the brush and the sycamore leaves flows through my eyes, and there is only the creek and the rain.
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