Summer Sun


Once the sun comes out behind the mild thickness of winter’s fog, light is everywhere - and everything - shining rainbow refraction on the windshield, cutting cathedral rays of gold between our ancient Spanish buildings, spilling in pools on our city’s red brick streets, glinting white light upon the shiny slick leaves of the always blooming magnolia trees. Reflecting up from the sky-blue water rushing in a dance of the eighteenth-century fountains found all over our small old city, shining in sweaty rivulets upon the smooth black skin of old men sitting on sagging stairs in the neighborhood of Lincolnville.


The light puts everything inside a glow and a gloaming - reluctant, always, to set, taking its time, malingering from gold to pink to plum, to that deepest blue of dreams.



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