There is a lagoon behind my house. It's home to several alligators, but this year they have made themselves scarce. I went looking for them this morning, and it was like one of those painted landscapes with a reflecting pool. The water was perfectly still, and everything across the water was reflected in the water between. Nothing moved in the water, and the water itself, a kind of dull brown, showed the trees, the grass and the sky without distorting the colors. The mirror image was just that.
It was the second unusual water scene in two days. Last night we walked the beach around sunset. The sun had set away from the ocean, leaving shadows and dark sand. The water, in contrast, stayed light, holding the reflected light even with the sun away behind the trees. In this case, the water was not reflecting an image. Instead it clung to the light, or the light clung to it. So the darkening sand sat alongside the bright water, a reversal after a long day of the sand showing bright in the sun while the deep green and blue of the ocean absorbed it.
Something similar happens in the morning. The water notices the light first and glows with a light that seems to come from within it. As the sun makes its appearance, the water darkens to its deep blue green for another day.
How does the water change itself? It uses the light, the same light that surrounds us all day, making it possible for us to see what is around us. The light leaves us at night, and, as it comes and goes, the water is the first to receive it and the last to let it go.
Between the time the light arrives and departs, the water offers us a true reflection.
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