With Time

How often, standing lonely, looking through to some majestic view, we are conscious of Time, of Time extending beyond our count, past our comprehending. Eons of sky, decades of trees that stand rooted in ancient rock, centuries spanned by buttes and canyons or a waterfall formed by rivers, make the moment small,

Or perhaps enlarge it to a mighty swell of sympathy, so that we are one with several ages, futures we cannot foretell and a past whose most vigorous work is not yet done.

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