For now it slashes the billows of clouds with fire. It does not matter that Edison perfected the lightbulb and that life goes on after the sun gleam fades, and that behind me the Vancouver skyline glistens an echo to the sinking lights across the water. For now the sun's light is the only light that matters.
I had a sentence to write, and a comma to edit into a semicolon. There was a text to reply to and an email or two or three to send. I had a schedule to fill with a bit of this and a bit of that. I probably needed to check Facebook, because, you know, I'm kind of a big deal. And the fruit fly trap on my counter won't clean itself out; it needs me -
But no, I chose to chase sunshine and the way the rippling waves leap up to catch its beams and make them stretch long and then thin on the surface of English Bay. I chose to pursue the apocalyptic glimmer beyond the trees and power lines, drive down down the hill to an empty lot, and then clamber over rocks to meet the rising tide and sit on the edge of the sea. And then I took a photograph, or two or three (or eleven if we want to be exact) because I am of this generation that lives to document.
Imagine for a moment that this is the last sliver of light before spring, never to glow on the eastern clouds in the morning until mid-May. Imagine that the city's echo of lights are not there and that all the light before you is all the light there is with nothing but storm clouds at your back. Would you not have ignored the commas and the semicolons, the texts and the emails, even the fruit flies?
Sometimes it pays to pay attention.