As above, so below
A frozen puddle caught my eye as Ollie and I walked through Sacramento Field. Shallow and filled with grass and leaves, and bubbles where it thawed and refroze, I stopped to check it out as Ollie sniffed some fascinating message or other.
As above, so below, I thought, flashing to some kind of strange religious ritual about puddles that doesn’t make sense when I write it down but seemed fitting when it came to my mind. The High Priestess of Puddles? I thought later, trying to rationalize it. Rationality did not come, and so I snorted to myself.
I turned my attention to the ground after that, perhaps tiring a bit of so much looking up. Unless we head down to the Charles, which we don’t often these frigid days, I don’t see much ice, which is perhaps why the frozen puddle caught my attention.
Salty oak leaves on the sidewalk, ice where the salt didn’t reach. Autumn suspended in time beneath an icy driveway. A bowl, filled with leaves, left on a fencepost.
Amaryllis behind a plane of shimmering glass.
The world in a puddle
I looked above me, of course, as is my custom, but I looked down, as well, because I miss seeing something different, something surprising. My friend Colleen finds whole worlds in puddles, the above reflected in the below. I did not find that in the ice, but a shift in focus reminded me that more remains to be seen.
Sundry Wonders: So Below
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