on_the_canvas_of_our_windscreen fyn gula waiting for the gasoline tank to fill at the full service pennzoil gas station at the bottom of the mountain near about a kilometer from robin hill, ingrid and i watched in silence as our chubby, snuff-chewing attendant, who just told us that the weather sucked, washed the windscreen of our subaru outback. it was 2 degrees outside and the mixture he used in the cleaning solution must have had too much water in it because as it dried it formed these magical ice flowers on the canvas of the glass right in front of us. we were stunned by the sudden beauty and studied the intricate fillagree like parents looking at the first fingerpainting of their child. so much wonder consumed us for those few seconds that we, without acknowledging it verbally, both recognized the artist, thankful we were worthy, so to speak, to receive this spontaneous show of ineffable creation. 030115 what's it to you? who go blather from