Late, late afternoon here in the city. It’s that « moment » of day’s light sliding into night’s dark. Even as I’m writing that, as the words take form, I’m aware of day/night as convenient labels for the same « thing, » which is not a « thing » at all, but rather a constant flux impossible to hold.
The simultaneous transformations are unfathomable… As testament to a shred of it, we see the leaves, yellow, tan, brown, beige, green, some fallen, some not, still branching their fill of limbs. And hear the roar of a bus passing in the street, heading to the stop near the corner. Someone will mount, someone will descend, someone will ride on…
Meanwhile, cat’s on my lap. She and I have « advanced » in age together, imperceptibly moment to moment, yet our hearts are always touched with love right now.
Earlier, I received by email this verse of a poem by Dogen:
« But even though winter is icy cold, what warmth can compare/To one plum blossom outside, opening five petals in the snow. »