Convergence tends to catch my eye.
In Boston’s naval shipyard, hundreds of years in seafaring technology are welded by sunset into a single silhouette.
Bright leaves and buds mark the common ground where seasons intersect. Land, sea and sky unite at the horizon. The sun’s rainbow streams find their common point in blazing white light. Fish and fowl come together in sweeping, undulating configurations. Generations of family converge around a Thanksgiving table.
And every day’s convergence: the person I was, before being eroded by grief, and the person I’ve become.