It was Saturday afternoon.

We were caught up in a good British audiobook and lost in the scenery of the Thruway, traveling east.

A blanket of snow covered the small river town with the brick church on the corner, the red barns and silver silos, the tall spruce trees that line the field.

The grey line of the horizon separated sky from earth, stretched out before us like a pencil sketch. Always ahead, just out of reach.

The word horizon has a double-meaning, of course. It can refer to the limit of our sight but also our perception: the limit of our knowledge, experience, or understanding. What we see is what we know, isn’t it?