I noticed something a couple of days ago. In between my usual ruminations and intensive work on Book II of Fire and Blood, I noticed the house glowing.
I set down my tech, walked away from the screens and drifted to the north side of the house. It’s not a big place, but long enough to support three windows on that side between the kitchen and my bedroom.
I started in the kitchen. Light reached in, dove past the sink and stretched long over the counter. In the dining area, it dashed itself against the wall. It bled gold tones, and though it wanted to ooze, it stuck thick and heavy where it first landed.
It made its most dramatic showing in my bedroom. Fitting, I suppose. Being quite the narcissist, it preened in the mirrored wardrobe before it silently spread itself across my bed. It caressed highlights, and with soft and steady pressure it etched in shadows.
I sat and witnessed this moment. The light. Something like magic.