... watching from the ledge of my living room bay window, i ask myself, "how is it that after seeing the sun set so very many times, still in witnessing i find a most reverent awe—how can this be" ...
... pa's hand on my shoulder, powerfully gentle, "i don't know, son, i don't know—perhaps it's just that we're watching, that's what counts" ...
... along the sidewalk, the rustling music of dry leaves swirling in the wind ...
... holding to autumn, radiators still closed, from the coolness of my kitchen the perfect aroma of coffee brewing ...
... just below my window, two pigeons, coo-coo-cooing courtship—or friendship, or, quite possibly, simply chatty bird gossip ...
... a distant siren—i live downtown so i know it's a red racing fire engine—an unseen neighbor's story, i'll cross fingers for a happy ending ...
... suddenly—how odd—the quiet memory of a tenderly soft kiss ...
... could it be, that g*d, formless shapeless infinite g*d ...
... that these things, this sunset, all sunsets, everything ...
... is g*d kissing us ...
... as when putting them to bed, so often did we our children ...
... reminding them ...
... reminding ourselves ...
... that loving, and being loved ...
... are the same thing ...
... it's dark now, night, and my question has not been answered ...
... i'm not concerned ...
... there will another sunset ... i will ask again ...
... "pa, our asking, perhaps that, too, counts" ...