I saw an owl the other evening. The wingspan spread against the sky behind it as it swept in and over the edge of our patio roof. Then it was gone. Another shadow behind the rafters.
I sat outdoors in the shadow of twilight, after watching the last sunbeams shine on the hill across the street. That is afternoon and sunset, the golden hour when burning yellow transforms into orange and red until crimson tells it goodbye, and the charcoal gray of shadow makes us whisper goodnight and goodbye. The stiff gnomon of the eucalyptus tree shapes a giant sundial lit until the last minute by red horizon beams because at this time of year, alone, the solstice sunset shines right up the canyon walls.
At the bottom of that cleft, I rejoice. Winter is turning. Only a little while more and we will slowly see more and more of the sun fire buring in the sky.
Then it will be hot.
Here.
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