A big dark stretch of purple across the tops of the trees; long staccato fingers stretch downwind; their corners are deep, deep, red, lit by the sun behind them. Three wide wisps of pure white radiate out, directly away from the sun. Silhouetted ships hang about, solitary, stationary, against a powder blue sky. Above and to the side, do I see one small smudge? A flat fingerprint of solid red, very light—very thin.

One minute passes. The red corners of the purple cloud's fingers have flared up—long deep alligator underbellies stretch across the great dark purple blot—as red as any flower, as red as any tongue. The wide white wisps are stretching now, a light veil across the dark purple mass. Across the Lake, each tiny house is reflecting a splinter of sunlight glare.

Nothing seems to change, but the red grows across the bottom of the purple widow: all of it is glowing as neon does. The wide white wisps have stretched out—they've become long fat scarves that seem to blow back from the sun in its own wind. Tiny clouds at the very horizon have dark, brilliant halos. A jetliner seems to dawdle, glinting, savoring the same sunset. One begins to wonder: how much is here? How much can I possibly notice before my perception goes blind, with all this change and so much so still? Finally, the great purple mass goes dark again, the wide white wisps have smeared into nothing, and soon the sky is dark, the silhouettes of those dark ships now black against dark blue.

It is like a piece of music—all these struck notes to marvel at—one misses most of it, each time; one hopes it is played again. Each shape and color that does grace the blundering mind is razor-sharp, the "pinprick of consciousness."

And still, describing it does no tribute. I only wish you were here, to find its secrets with me.