We are standing on a hill, our shadows behind us and therefore invisible. Except that our sight created this scene, we have nothing to do with the action below. Things unfold before us and we can only watch, being powerless to touch or to influence.

Closest to us is a man tilling a field, his horse and plough creating concentric furrows in this piece of land overhanging the sea. This sloping staircase of grooves stretches to the left and out of sight, disappearing into the shadows of the trees, now only regaining their leafy glory.

And just below the farmer is a shepherd, his dog beside him, his sheep (two of them are black) grazing around, precariously close to the land’s edge. The shepherd is gazing upwards, not at us, not seeing us.

We follow our gaze down to the water. There is a castle-like structure jutting out of the water, and further behind it are hazy golds and browns of another town, set against the grey of the clouds and the mountains in the furthest reach of our eyes.

There are boats and ships on the water. One is so close to us that we can see the ropes that hold the sails in place. From our distance, its bulk appears almost lugubrious as it begins its journey, but the billowing sails alleviate that sobriety, inject the heavy structure with levity and flight.

There is a fisherman stretching his right arm out into the water. He perches on some rocks at the water’s edge, careful not to get his white tunic wet.

And in the bottom right corner of our sight is a pair of legs, thrashing in the water. A few white feathers are almost lost amidst the froth those legs kick up.

This is Icarus drowning.

See also “Musee des Beaux Arts” by W. H. Auden.