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The sun hesitated on its way behind the west mountains yestereve; for a moment the new grass hummed with the extra warmth and the good light. 
The clouds stayed their course as the sun stood still, passing over the sun in an instant, their quick shadow like turning a page on the evening. 
As the moment followed itself, the birds sung a little more clearly, not louder, but in a way that recalled ice breaking after a long winter.  The resonance of each note went to a different part of the body, high notes touching the shoulders and the lows caressing the soles of the feet. 
There were no motors, no jets, no shouts of anger.  Only that long plane of light not unlike the sea at sunrise, with all of the waves at one time refracting the sun's node into the eye; not without some discomfort, because life is not without pain at some level, but so that each glint of light reminds one of a reason to proceed, drawing one to that particular shard of light until another takes its place.
On its way, the sun hesitated, and I am glad that I noticed.

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