The quality of light through the leaves when the sun is rising or setting and directly perpendicular to the hanging sheets - on maple or sycamore especially - where the leaves are backlit intensely and come to a full glow of life - green so vibrant it has turned to gold, red from fall merging with fire. The first time I noticed such a spectacle was several thousand feet up in the mountains, waking on a June morning in a sleeping bag outdoors in camp next to a friend after staying up late discussing life - the sun and chill air together compelled consciousness and I could watch the path of the photons creepingly traverse the ground until suddenly we were aligned and leaves came to life. It was stunning and mine alone and I still look for that moment, especially in fall, and revel in its presence.
I watch the light constantly - it lustrates me, I lustrate it (how I love Latin versatility) - I wonder at the everpresent gleam in the sky and the forms it takes, twisting itself into new variations through the seasons and tempests. I drive to Champaign in the early morning, marveling at the gray sky and greening stalks glowing by contrasts - they seem to effect their own light and proclaim their verdant, vital growth to the quiet gloom of the sky, softly shining with dew and diffusion. Another day, seeing the soft pinks and hard golds of the early sun striking the dulled leaves of dead corn, having to turn the visor so the rising sun doesn't strike me in the eyes when I change lanes; as cold sets in and the evening creeps earlier by the day, and the morning sun seems wan and tired through my apartment window, feebly striking Attila, now penned in a lowly yogurt container after the disastrous wind whipped him across our steps to lie ignobly broken in the ground-cover, all my fault for setting him on the mailbox on a delightful autumn afternoon (a tad breezy) to rejoice in that transient flame from the heavens.
