In a land of limitless horizons, there are moments when the arrow of time seems to vanish. A crystal point of distant horizon appears, and the clouds and wind are moving yet going nowhere. These fragments of timelessness occur most readily in high summer, in the lateness of afternoon, or the onset of evening, when the long hours of daylight passing into twilight are still ahead and the deeds of the day are behind. An intangible shard of temporary eternity floats out of the sky and settles all around, comforting in its insulation. It is neither before nor after, but only “now,” a single thread of the fabric of the present. Its essence is both so small as to be immeasurable, and so vast as to be incomprehensible. One can feel it, wrap oneself within it, breathe it in, and partake of its singularity, but it cannot be held or prolonged. There is no influence upon it save its own, and it will vanish as readily as it comes, replaced by the forward motion of time’s arrow. And then one longs to meet it again. Teton County, Wyoming.
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