The shadows of bush branches outside the window fall on the sunlit wall by my table.
The wind waves and they dance on the wall and along the tabletop.
Life is in those shadows. Seasons pass, decades, and the shadows send a signal of what is present somewhere, but not within my reach.
Their impression, more fluid than their being, is energy just passing through of the solid object upon which we are more inclined to focus.
Shadows can traverse time, forward and backward, infinite. While the object that opens that door is even now withering to autumn.
Shouldn't...but Do 