"Beyond the window's lace curtain the cottonwood tree in the yard seemed real enough, and the sky's gray light seemed handmade for the moment's heat like any fire. ... The whole illuminated, moving scene would play on in his absence, would continue to tumble into the future extending the swath of the lighted and known, moving as a planet moves with its clouds attached, its waves all breaking at once on its thousand shores, and its people walking willfully to market or to home, followed by dogs. ... He could feel the planet spinning ever faster, and bearing him into the darkness with it, flung. These were the only days. 'The harvest is past,' Clare thought, 'the summer is ended, and we are not saved.' ... There was not time enough to honor all he wanted to honor; it was difficult even to see it. The seasons pitched and heaved a man from rail to rail, from weather side to lee side and back, and a lunatic hogged the helm. Shall these bones remember?"

From The Living by Annie Dillard

winter/spring/summer

Nikon FE2, 50mm