Three Hundred Fifty-Eight

As I sit at my desk, peering out the window into the shadowy darkness; the differences between day and night command my contemplation.

On a clear day, awash in a wild spectrum of colors and contrasts, my eyes delight in seeing jagged ribbons of bark—grey and sage and brown—snake up the trunks of the trees outside the window, the shadows between ribbon enriching the tapestry and making it complex. Drab green lichens writhe up and around trees. Moss rests atop rock outcroppings in a sea of mottled brown and tan leaves covering the ground. The bright blue sky forms a backdrop to pine trees across the street. Looking at the trees and the leaf-littered ground, I see everything in high-definition, crisp and sharp. The brightness of the day is a metaphor for fulfillment and joy.

At this hour, though, the color is gone. There’s only darkness, interrupted by dull shadows and an occasional dim light; or maybe it’s just a reflect of light on a drop of water on a leaf. Though I know there are trees outside my window, I cannot see them. I cannot see the leaves on the ground, nor the moss-covered rocks. There may be nocturnal animals crawling along the ground, sniffing at the house. I can see nothing but shadows. The dimness of the pre-dawn darkness is a metaphor for sorrow.

Yet when the sun begins to crawl over the horizon, a hint of a smile emerges across the sky; the melancholy of darkness begins its transition to vivacity. The evolution of night to day is a metaphor for hope. And I forecast the darkness outside my window will evolve into a bright, clear day.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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