Reflections of a day

What do you call the moments of the day, remembered in a jumble, deep into evening when the daylight has long since passed?

This morning brought dry, bitter cold and the palest of January light.

In the park, the dogs and I had barely come down the steps and moved down the path when a crashing sound stopped us, at least two of us with ears up. We turned and on the slope above us, two deer, galloping full speed, flashed by, followed by a small, golden streak, barking.

I expected shortly to hear horns honking, as they were headed toward traffic, but as we continued on, the only sound was a whistle for a dog, and the next sigh the golden streak, in the form of a running boxer, rushing back past us into the park.

We were left with the hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling on a tree trunk and icy water rippling over stones in the creek. We finished our walk uneventfully, the memory of the chase immediately replaced in the dogs' minds by the next fascinating smell.

I went to the hospital in the early afternoon to visit Carl, who now has a very talkative roommate. On his cell phone. With the nurses. About things you just would rather not hear about, as they are unpleasant daily realities in the hospital. I won't say thanks for sharing.

After work, I drove back to visit again. Heading in to Oakland on the Boulevard of the Allies, I saw the moon, low and huge in the evening sky, veiled by cloud drift. At the hospital, I headed to the top floor of the garage, hoping to get a picture, but the skyline obscured it. By the time I left, the risen moon had lost its near-to-the-horizon majesty.

Now, at midnight, it lights the dark, turning the snow in the backyard to a pale silver gray, reflecting what's left of the day.

The painting is by artist Edward Bannister, a black American who was born in Boston and died in 1901.