It’s coming in from the window, leaving its trail on tiny leaves that blow. It’s a light golden color tone that’s leaking across the page. I try to capture it, to take a picture of it with my words. Ink spills out from my pen and fills the space in-between lines. Soon most of the light is gone, left with the setting sun. I notice again though that some of it has returned. It’s almost as if it was asking to be remembered with the rest of it. And then, once the description is captured, it’s gone. Just like that. I’ll look back someday at the description, but the moment will be gone. I don’t mind that though. A memory is almost better in a photograph or words. I’m thankful for this gift of leaking sun.