Where Will We Go

Writing on The Dock of The Bay

      
  
 
  
    
  
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  Seymour was a ray of orange light in the sunrise of first day. He spread himself across the sky and over the deep blue bay, surrounded by other rays of light - Lady Red and Deep Purple, Big Pink and Touch of Grey, all part of something bigger, all coming from the same source - the rising & majestic burning orb called Sun. Birds soared on sea breeze currents. Solitary people watched from shore and small boats that bobbed in the water. One or two snapped photos. Another painted from an easel on the wharf. Seymour, who didn't consider himself photo or paint-a-genic, admired his tiny self and friends on the thick white canvas, though Big Pink seemed a bit much, and Touch of Grey hadn't made the painting at all. Typical. As Sun climbed the horizon, Seymour felt himself fading, receding into Bright Yellow and Vast Blue. He didn't know where he was going or when he would return, or if fog would crash the party next time, or if clouds and rain or lightning - which he loved like an outlaw cousin, would prevent him from appearing. He didn't worry. For he knew, someday he would return, once again spreading across the sky, lighting the world and the lives of those who pause and gaze, in moments suspended, ensconced in the feel and glow of color and light.   

 

Seymour was a ray of orange light in the sunrise of first day. He spread himself across the sky and over the deep blue bay, surrounded by other rays of light - Lady Red and Deep Purple, Big Pink and Touch of Grey, all part of something bigger, all coming from the same source - the rising & majestic burning orb called Sun. Birds soared on sea breeze currents. Solitary people watched from shore and small boats that bobbed in the water. One or two snapped photos. Another painted from an easel on the wharf. Seymour, who didn't consider himself photo or paint-a-genic, admired his tiny self and friends on the thick white canvas, though Big Pink seemed a bit much, and Touch of Grey hadn't made the painting at all. Typical. As Sun climbed the horizon, Seymour felt himself fading, receding into Bright Yellow and Vast Blue. He didn't know where he was going or when he would return, or if fog would crash the party next time, or if clouds and rain or lightning - which he loved like an outlaw cousin, would prevent him from appearing. He didn't worry. For he knew, someday he would return, once again spreading across the sky, lighting the world and the lives of those who pause and gaze, in moments suspended, ensconced in the feel and glow of color and light.