Newborn pups frolicking with their mother, who is afraid and wary of the stranger stopping to take it all in. As well she should be, for her protection of her young is a wonderful thing.
A lone bloom in a garden full of yet-grown flowers.
A couple on a street corner, holding hands and kissing, perhaps a little too intimate for public view. So deliciously meretricious.
A stop sign so layered in endless encounters with midnight taggers and their spray paint cans that it has transcended its civic role, and become art.
A fledgling on the pavement before me, whose little life has been lost from falling out of the nest too soon.
The windshield glass in the street, shattered into snow, and the splats of red upon it, the ubiquitous yellow tape, remnants of a city tragedy that is merely an inevitable part in the tapestry.
A sky that radiates a marbled canvas of unspeakable magnificence. Or the rolling, dark, angry eyes of a tempest creeping.
The tiniest thing is mine. All mine.
To love, to cherish, to covet, to reflect upon, to mourn, perhaps a moment of silence and a bowed head.
Until it is someone else’s turn for a captivating discovery.
And then to be able to let it go, to appreciate its impermanence, to move on to the next wonder, the next brush, the next audacious interception with life in all of its astonishment.
I once opened a fortune cookie to a fortune that was meant for me:
“You see treasures where others see nothing unusual.”
I DO see treasures where others see nothing unusual. Which makes me smile.
I also brazenly plagiarize fortune cookies.