The calendar called it balance, but the day didn’t seem to know. Morning light arrived sharp and uneven, the sun flaring against wet pavement where snow still lingered in shadow. The air felt stretched thin, as if winter were still tugging from one edge while spring pulled from the other.
I opened the gallery early. The street outside carried a restless sound—construction on the next block, a car stereo too confident for its speakers, the hollow rush of wind through the alley. Nothing dramatic, just the city tuning itself without finding a key. Inside, the heater clicked once and gave up.
A woman came in looking for something “bright for the season.” Her voice carried that spring optimism that assumes contrast is proof of progress. I showed her a print of the Animas River in late thaw—ice breaking like pages turned too fast. She nodded, said she’d think about it, and left the door open behind her.
The afternoon leaned toward noise: sirens, a passing motorcycle, and the distant whistle of the narrow-gauge returning from Silverton. Every sound overlapped, brief but insistent. The day didn’t balance anything; it layered instead.
When evening came, the wind calmed and the flag near City Hall hung still for the first time in weeks. The quiet felt provisional, the kind that waits for an interruption. Equinox isn’t a moment—it’s an argument paused for breath.
After closing, I stepped outside to lock the door and stood for a while, listening for what might come next. The last sunlight hit the windows across the street, reflecting back like another season entirely. Somewhere a screen door slammed, and a few dry leaves scraped along the curb. Balance, I thought, is mostly motion slowed to where it looks still. The day exhaled, unfinished but steady enough to walk home in.