The doctor’s office is a corner suite with two large bay windows. One overlooks a major highway, with millions of vehicles whizzing past, drivers preoccupied with their myriad cares. The other overlooks a small copse of woody birches and oaks rising high over bushy shrubs and flowering crabapple trees.
It is this window that captures my attention, for on the outside, in the center as if framed, is the ethereal imprint of a bird. Pale dust makes a gestural painting of outstreched wings. A faithful redering of individual feathers layering the breastbone. A wispy indication of a head, beak agape.
For some reason, I am struck by the image of this ghostly bird’s headlong flight into certain death. I am filled with feelings of awe and sorrow. I am touched by the random beauty I see in the finer details of the feathers; fine lines of pale brown dust and ash.
I feel compelled to immemorialize what I see, to share what I feel. But technology fails me. The glare of the setting sun is all my camera can capture. Even though a picture is worth a thousand words, a thousand words is better than nothing at all. And so I write this post, knowing that all my words fail to show you just how amazing this is, where life and death, instants and infinities come together into a singlularity that imprints itself in my mind just as it imprinted itself onto a glass windowpane.