Woody Gossamer Against Clarity
My eyes are opening. I can now look at the bare trees against the blue sky. All winter, I haven’t wanted to look up because I would expose my neck or get cold on my face from the sky. But the blue has appeared again, after a few months of constant white and grey. A week ago, it felt like New Mexico winters: snow on the ground but blue above and sun in the air. It felt ironic. The blue is kind now, and it seems I can admire the sleeping trees with freedom. I stare at their shapes and am aware that this would be the ideal time to learn their types, the names we’ve given them. But I can’t stop staring.