So Much Depends Upon

So much depends
upon
the red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
(The Red Wheel Barrow William Carlos Williams)

The week was lived for this night's sunset, caught as it was around and between the big boughs of the tree, Duncan's Tree. It wasn't just the gold on the clouds against the last of the day's blue, or even the darkness of the tree seen from behind––not quite a tree any more, but the shape of one, its memory––but the two of them together, happening at once, a perception of action and inaction. That was why the week was so long and at times unendurable because the universe, behaving as the universe does more often than we'd like to admit, was saving this, knowing that as Duncan and I returned home, tired and chilled and looking forward to the quiet of the weekend, that I would glance––so accidentally––in the direction of the mountains for one last glimpse of the day and catch my breath. The reason for the week, painted against the sky for everyone to see, so difficult but also easy. Like a favor. Or a blessing.