I’m surrounded by naturally occurring works of art.
One enterprising bird has woven into its nest a glistening silver lining, a discarded strand of Christmas tinsel. Another bird strides forward with a beak full of yellow-green buds to festoon its home; as it springs ahead, sunlight transforms blue-black feathers to iridescent shades of purple and deep copper, kissed with gold.
Each flower, each bud and leaf, is a magnificently constructed masterwork. In early morning they are brilliantly backlit, somehow as if glowing from within. Water drops, diamonds and seed pearls, sprinkle velvet petals.
Rainwater puddles on black tar, turning the street itself into an abstract canvas.
I often dwell in the space occupied by art, magic and love: The Goldfinch’s narrator placed these intangibles “between ‘reality’ on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality,” in “a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not. . . .”