Perhaps a small gleam begins to touch the edge of things. It happens without much fuss. Deer that stand still as trees with their color blending in suddenly become visible as they lift their heads to smell the wet, sweet air that belongs to creeks, trees and clouds.
Maybe the presence of a chickadee on the low branch of a birch, curious and spilling silver notes, flashes in the gentle morning as my eyes follow the soft gray streak of a dove racing over the vineyard toward the afternoon's warmth. I follow along the edge without lifting my attention from the delicate rustle of my stride, as if creating a blind contour drawing from words and wings to keep the line alive.