LIght On a Winter Morning

I wondered what to pay attention to this morning, going here and there, across town and home again.  People? The radio?  The weather?  Ideas?

No.  It was sunlight.

I noticed as I turned onto the main street traversing Monterey that the day's palette of colors was coolly silver with tones of blue and gray.  Everywhere.  Everything, even ugly things, were cast in a special light.  Not so bad to see a big ocean whose surface was riffled by an onshore breeze and the sky's reflection broken into infinite bits of varying blue.  Not so bad to see an ocean look like hammered silver and birds stitching it to the sky with crooked black wings in silhouette.  The rooftop of a grand but dark old building, overgrown with a winter bloom of gold moss and lichen, looked like it had come right up out of the very earth itself.  There were twin round towers of pale silver, tubes that if tall enough could transport hope straight up and joy straight down from angels, silver themselves, as you know.  A king must have passed through, littering the scene with casually flung coins; rain puddles and dew were as good as coin  or sequins tacked to cloaks and scabbards.  If you squinted your eyes just so, that is.  And I did.  Of course I did.