My vocation demands close work; I seldom have the
opportunity to look at the horizon. Here I’ve done little else. Whether it’s wondering
if it’s a ship I see on the last curve beyond the furthermost whitecap of the
Atlantic Ocean or looking for an egret across vast tracts of swamp, one way or the other I’m casting my eyes to the faintest, most faraway speck I can see.  

Surely this must be good for one’s eyes — to say nothing of one’s soul.

Long distance — what the eagle spots from his perch on the
highest dead tree in the refuge. 

Long distance — what the birder tries to obliterate
with his binoculars.  

Long-distance vision — what
the pilgrim hopes to bring back from the shore.