Thursday, December 13, 2007
A Sentence of Holy Smokes
En route to my car on the fourth level of the garage at midday, I am arrested by a vision of reality across Montgomery Street: powdery pockets of snow sliding down the emerald patina of the copper roof of St. Paul's Cathedral, accumulating just enough weight at angled wedges to glide downward in a puff of alabaster swirling smoke, eddies of epiphany that pour down, then pop, then dissipate in a gust, only to do it again, and again, surrounded by a curtain of endless flakes.
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4 comments:
What a lovely sight, Pawlie.
Puss
beautiful vision you describe ~
I notice you talk about the parking garage a lot.
Puss,
Thanks for your sightly comment.
Patti,
Yeah. Some are in the closet. I'm in the garage. I'm a garage band (a band of one).
pure awesomeness!
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