SkyI won’t live long enough to get sick of rainbows. Of Jacob’s ladders. Of sunsets. Sunsets with clouds puffed in pink against a purple glow, streaked is violet over a golden spread, and wisped in orange and gray across the fading blue of day and darkening navy of night.

I don’t think I’ll tire of thunderclaps; the flash of lightening—veins across the sky—will never lose their thrill. I will always look forward to the rain. The first drops that make the dry ground let up little poofs of dust, the sideways no-way-to-stay-dry sheets mid-storm, and the mist before the sun returns.

I don’t believe I’ll ever know anything more beautiful than the stars on a clear moonless, lightness night or the orange moon glowing just above the treetops. I won’t live long enough to get sick of the magenta sunrise.

It pains me to think there might have been times when I was too harried, too busy to notice these things when they crossed my path. To be truly lost is to forget life distilled is sunbeams and water droplets.