Yesterday, as I propelled Vic through our neighborhood in the stroller, taking the air in the afternoon after a day spent resting and recuperating, I looked up and over the hills to find a stunning sight.
The hills, shrouded in a deep-blue shawl of fog made a dark backdrop to the spires of leafless tree-branches turned gold in the light of the setting sun. On one side of the Bay the weather was clear and bright, the sun gilding the rooftops with its rays, as it disappeared into the ocean with firey glory. On the other, the darkness of clouds hovering on the heights, ominous and boiling, though they spoke of weather passed as opposed to weather coming.
The breeze skirted around my ankles and through my hair, a feather-light touch of warmth, surprisingly balmy for a late January day. Tendrils of gold on a canvas of indigo still cast their light across the landscape of my visual memory. Something perhaps, to capture, or at least attempt to capture with paint and brush.