Maybe the problem is that we are too adaptable - we get used to the cold, then the heat, then the rain - and as we move from season to season, each hair on the forearm confounds us - at first giving us pause - but we adapt. I step onto the deck from the air conditioned house in early July and I am startled by the heat of the late afternoon - I’m adapted to the cool house. But my wife has been sitting out here for a while and insists the air is beautiful. So I join her and wonder at my changing perceptions - ping ponging from this love to some distant disgust - from this fear to some new desire. I try to observe it without being pulled in - the humidity or the frost or perhaps the bright sun - awaiting a day when the glory of the light and not the glare of the reflection pulls me up from the dream.