Last night it was as if someone spilled one drop of golden tallow into the calm dark of the sky: the moon. The night was enchanted by it, gentled by it; the quiet was full of wordless luminous charms. But then, even before the moon appeared, there had been magic in the dusk, in the reddening of horizons and the long fine threads of silver from houselights falling into darkening waters like lines fishing for dreams, hooked perhaps by sorrows and hopes, mortgages and Christmas grocery bills. And there had been swans dancing together through the sunset - the same sequence of moves over and over, like a tranquil waltz, while three grey cygnets watched.
And there had been the moment when I blinked and everything changed - the softly rippling water moving faster, so much faster it was almost a blur, although there was no wind at all, no sound, no breaking of the surface. I blinked and blinked but it did not change again. I felt like I was witnessing some ordinary, everyday, nameless, ancient magic. Great golden fish rose every now and again through it, impossible fish that everyone says are not there - four times rising, maybe five, as if pieces of the sunset had fallen in and were trying to return skyward. I could have sat there forever watching it all. I almost felt like I had. When I got home I was not entirely surprised to see it was an hour past when I'd expected it to be.
This morning the hot dry light has returned, and its hard to believe the velvet lushness of the night could ever have existed.