Already the window is moving too fast. In the steel rectangle a clearing for light to break-through arrives. At first there are only trees, weakly green with the sudden spring, green butterflies freshly decanted from their winter chrysalis. As a rented bike brrs by, confirmation that winter has let down her cowl, the square before me lights up–a whole skyful of lemon meringue! And this sky is edged, defined by a black blade-drawn stroke of oil paint skidded from a master impressionist’s hand. The stark corner of El Capitan looms larger than the sky itself from here in my springy car, the drying duct tape over an escaping seat-coil flapping anciently. But here, risen in my eyes, a vast cliff-face made of rock and light greets me with eternity as I drive by yawning….