A 271-word image

Just at that moment when the early evening August sun, until then hidden but not obscured by wafer-layered clouds, clouds like silver sheets of mica, at that moment when the early evening August sun reached and for the merest instant hovered at the edge of one particular sheet of mica and cast its light neither against nor through the layers but along and between them, creating an intense fine-grain light in which everything was half again as clear as the instant before, light which surrounded what it struck so that neither side was dark, just as he was skating on the asphalt path along the river, half an hour into his run, moving swiftly, gracefully, effortlessly, with his mind abstracted to details of a letter he would later compose resigning an unproductive but time-consuming post, just as he was passing, on that small flat plain of grassy vegetation mown a week before and now raggedly beautiful in its casual regrowth, which fact registered in some measure on his brain although he did not consciously acknowledge it but only found it there as residual image some days later, just as he was passing a row of young maple trees, perhaps twelve or fifteen feet high and some fifteen yards apart, planted there recently by a county commission anxious to find summer work for teenagers, just at that moment he glanced aside at the trees, and noticed their shadows, such shadows as they cast in the fine-grain all-encompassing light, their shadows were not behind them, away from the sun, but beside them, at an angle to the sun.


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