Reflections on Silver

Silver is not a color. It is everything surrounding the shiny kettle. It’s a red sweater and. It’s the same with a glassy river. We sit by the Seine, eat our baguettes. We watch a fight across the water, hear a bottle shatter, watch the bits of glass glisten, tumble into the water and create small waves. More broken light, more agitated color. We don’t fret that the river was green this afternoon, clear with a close look. We don’t worry that everything above and sideways is pulled down and reflected back to us now, that we’ve assigned one color for an entire image. It’s like that with most things. We finish our wine. We talk about love. I believe it must be a bit like silver, like this black canal. Not quite what we say it is. Fishy, dirty, full.