I had not meant to post this morning, but I am up before anyone else, the house is quiet, and I'm thinking of a line I read the other day in Linda Lear's biography of Rachel Carson, something a reviewer said of The Edge of the Sea: "Carson has shown her remarkable talent for catching the life breath of science on the still glass of poetry."
It's a lovely image. First, to speak of science as a "breath," something alive and growing, but fragile and almost invisible in its deepest significance. Then, to be caught as a visible mist on the cool glass of the senses. With our fingertip we might write our name there.
And now, as I sit looking out to sea with my laptop on my lap, waiting for the house to stir, the Sun -- "that strange flower," "that tuft of jungle feathers" -- gathers its nuclear fire on the horizon out there where the navigational beacon on Stocking Island marks the limit of its annual southern excursion. Each morning now it will rise a bit farther north as the Earth leans into its curve. Each morning now the Sun -- "that savage of fire, that seed" -- will haul those vanished tons of its own elemental substance transformed into energy along the horizon, painting the dawn more directly before our windows with its multicolored breath. A mist. A mist of living energy caught here on the still glass of Christmas morning.