Feeling the Abstract.

This evening’s twilight was chilly but not uncommonly so by April standards. The grey day clouds had given way to a sky of evening azure, and what fragments remained held station in the still air. The crimson sun had slipped down to rest, leaving a hot-painted fringe in its wake on the western horizon. 

On a nearby bough a lone robin sang the twilight melody which only the thrush family knows, while all the rest was silence. A lone bat flew purposefully across the space between the two sycamore trees as darkness swelled to end the day.

At such times I almost pity those whose eyes see only the mundane and the material, and whose minds know only pragmatism and self-interest. I claim not that they are in any way inferior to me, but only less fortunate.