Optic Musings in Mid-December

Parallax, the way I understand it, is the way a lower cloud rush-glides in silence beneath a cleaving trail of jet exhaust, which is stationary, though it appears that the cleave is moving and the cloud is stationary.

This particularly happens on winter afternoons in a fit of wind-gust. The sky is typically of a piercing glass sort.

On these winter afternoons, the cold cuts in angles on the face that help us visualize the moving cleave: as if a wound which dances against the atmosphere, that as it heals in the place it moves from, it slices open where it moves to.

But we realize, suddenly as if we are God, or as if we realize what God might be, parallax. And then, because the wound is stationary, not the cloud, we may heal completely.