As known and shocking as the day in fall when sunlight casts pure color on the wall through window prisms—as if the year wheels round so crystals can throw rainbows on the ground— the ordinary miracles come back. Orion sinks each autumn on his track; somewhere (not here) the leaves are turning red, but I have seen them once. They fill my head: I watch them changing with an inner eye while outwardly great crowds of grackles fly. The day grows short; the night throws out its arms to show us all the wonder of its charms, for every season bears with it such balms, each hour unfolding its accustomed psalms, calling the pilgrim passing on the way to mark the blessing of each passing day before it flies. Yes, we are passing, too, where mercy every moment is made new.
Sunlight spectrum produced by the prism. By Maxim Bilovitskiy – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44968434
