All The Light We Cannot See

Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.

We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.

His voice is low and soft, a piece of silk you might keep in a drawer and pull out only on rare occasions, just to feel it between your fingers.

I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea.

 It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening.

 Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins.

 Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it,

 and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere.

White strings of gulls drag over it like beads.

Anthony Doerr