I began the day in a leisurely day-off-of-work way.

My coffee was still hot in the cup, lightened with cream,  an Easter indulgence with some left over for after-the-holidays, I'd let myself wander in the direction of doing a couple of sketches, seduced by indigo shadows that branches have draped over bright gentle drifts of snow outside my window. Winter light is exceptional; it's strong and no-nonsense and in the morning textures snap to in response to its rigorous treatment. Tree bark is crisply delineated, wood trim on Mary's house stands out strong from the shadows it casts to the west out of sight of the morning sun. To let the gift of that light go unsavored would be foolish, I thought, Just a quick sketch or two before getting to work around here.

The sketches led to pulling out a watercolor stack that I'd stowed to take out for warm weather that will come, but as of now only taken on faith. It's mid-March, it's comprehensively winter outside and the colors have waited long enough. This morning they tinted the last sketch. It will look horrifyingly bad to me tomorrow, but this morning I'm pleased with it.

I was listening to a podcast that I listen to every morning. The podcast that starts my listening every day bears the responsibility for how long I let myself enjoy all of this. Garrison Keillor's poem pick today recognized birthday boy Lawrence Ferlingetti whose "The Changing Light" reeled me in. In presenting you with the idea of the power of light, I'll defer to Ferlinghetti; his picture paints a better picture of it than I did.

The changing light

            at San Francisco

    is none of your East Coast light

            none of your

                  pearly light of Paris

The light of San Francisco

            is a sea light

                      an island light

And the light of fog

          blanketing the hills

    drifting in at night

           through the Golden Gate

                     to lie on the city at dawn.

And then the halcyon late mornings

   after the fog burns off

      and the sun paints white houses

                     with the sea light of Greece

        with sharp clean shadows

         making the town look like

                                it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o' clock

                                    sweeping the hills

And then the veil light of early evening

And then another scrim

            when the new night fog

                             floats in

And in that vale of light

                 the city drifts

                         anchorless upon the ocean

                                           Lawrence Ferlinghetti