And Beauty.

The beauty of the ephemeral. Beauty in all its forms. In the permanence of mountains. And in the constant motion of its surfaces, the flurry of snow or the rustling of grass. In the busker playing outside a train station, the musician in a public square, a master in the concert hall. In an early morning greeting between friends. Strangers. Between long lost lovers and family and friends. In the skies above. In the innocence of children. Of grown men and women. In the sunrise and sunset and twilight and the glow of the moon. In fireworks which come alive for brief seconds before being spent forevermore. In the calm waters of a clear lake, the reflections on its surface. In the girls with their painted faces and their lacquered nails. In the flight of birds as they move in tandem with each other, a perfectly executed dance of bone and muscle and feathers. In the flight of planes carrying the hopes and dreams of a hundred passengers, going forth to live their lives or leave their lives, the only lives they've ever known.