Nature Memoir V

 Two contrails. White slow motion comets. Looking up at the inverted ocean to see those drag racers' wake like the most distant scratches on a metal. And opposite, the moon. Palest crescent. This sickle-shaped tear much like the bead of rain on God's window. Unperturbed, the sun. Yet when obscured by the roof's edge its brightness you can gaze directly upon, only within a shadow. Only within a shadow do you look at, can look at, the brightest object. Yet otherwise its reach is from your tiny eyes an infinite span. Somewhere very far away, this light disappears over the horizon. The same light that penetrates the air yielding most crisp shadows under it is weak and fading elsewhere. We two look at the same sun, same light, yet different. How the very scale of the Great Curve moves.