It's not that your sky is such a clear and tender blue, out here in the midst of Winter.
Nor that your plant people glow that particular green in the westering Sunday sun.
Neither is it the way my earthsoul surfaces from sleep to greet these perfect images.
It is just the fact that, for at least four billion years, I have been privileged to be able to see these things.
And try to speak of them.
And make attempts to capture them in pixels when I can't capture them in words.
And, when I can do none of these things, to simply breathe in worship.