Two trees that have shed all their leaves stand on either side of the frame, and between them the sun hangs round in a gap in the clouds. The sky spreads from honey-colored to deep brown, and the ridgeline below is pressed down in black. Two benches sit empty, only the lines of their backrests remaining. It is the brief time when the light grows thickest, before the sun goes all the way down.
Watching a scene like this, the shoulders drop a little. While the eyes hold their focus on a distant point, the tension in the jaw and between the brows loosens, and the inhaled breath lengthens on its own. The fingertips are still cold, but the warmth touching the face is felt sooner than that.
Standing in the winter light, the feeling that often rises is impatience. Because you know the light will soon be gone, the thought that you must use this time well slips in. That impatience turns even the act of taking in the sun into something to be accomplished.
By a window or at the end of an alley, it is worth finding one place where the light falls and standing still for about five minutes. With the soles of the feet fully on the ground, the eyes closed or set on something far away, what if you only followed which side of your cheek the light touches?
The same five minutes opens up in front of the evening dishes too. You can put your ear to the sound of the water rinsing the bowls, and while your hands warm under the faucet, look only at how stiff the back of your neck has become. If you lift your head a little, you can feel how far the tension in the back of the neck reaches. Without checking whether it has loosened or stayed the same, leave it at the level of scanning what grain that stiffness sits along.
The sun will go over the ridge again today without telling anyone, and the benches will stay empty right where they were.
