by Vigen Guroian
All summer a leafed canopy kept out the sun and left the path safe and secluded. It is the kind of place where children might play hide-and-seek, or Adam and Eve conceal themselves from God. On this day, however, I, in my middle years, all soiled and weary, ambled down it, playing a timeless gardener's game, imagining what beauty there might be in spring when the flowers bloomed. As I reached the bottom, it was as if I had entered a house of light. The walls were not solid, and the powder-blue sky was its dome. But the temple was tangible, nonetheless, in sheer luminescence; and Hungry Run flowed through it like a silver thread.