Everything the same; everything distinct. (Chien-ju)
There are few things that mean as much to me as a morning walk after an evening snow with Duncan, when the world is still silent and the blanket still smooth, the sky bright and high and his joy unquenchable. I am not a churchgoing fellow but on mornings like this, when every branch and blade, when even the fading red and browns of the bricks or the warping wood of a park bench are breathtaking in their purity, I can understand why others believe in God. I choose to believe in the beauty of this world and that is salvation enough for me. It is easy when the sun, still new to the morning, barely caresses the uppermost branches of the cottonwoods and the snow, settled and sleepy, stirs and dances its way earthward, quilting the ground around the fat trunk with its impression. How can I not when the flitting flakes shimmer in the sun like snow-pixies around the inquisitive head of my curious Golden boy?
