July 25

Sunset— and not just from the bus this time.

The last light on the clearest day of the month turned Mount Bukhan pink. The river water below reflected the delicate hues of oncoming dusk like the big, soft roses I spotted here not so long ago.

In the street lay an abandoned bouquet, a lover’s quarrel? A poorly tied delivery thrust off the careening scooter of a youth?

Stories burst in between sidewalk cracks, through busted fences, and over the steam of a good meal.

Life is joyous in big moments, yes, but small moments too.

Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.

Mary Oliver, It Was Early

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