Out in the desert, that last hour between day and night can be really spectacular. Some things are just so beautiful that you have to try and catch them on paper, even though you know that you’ll never get it quite right. This is my feeble attempt.
The sunset sets the long red-brown desert on fire. Massive purple clouds drift and layer, reflecting deep rose-gold colors in their underbellies, as if they’ve been dipped in the molten, dripping sun. Darkness begins closing at the edges of the sky, turning the far-off lavender mountains to shady shapes and eating up the blue-and-cream streaked expanse.
The clouds deepen as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, behemoths of purple-deep shadow soaked in crimson at the edges. The sky becomes that calm, quiet periwinkle that always comes just before night sets in, as if the heavens, now purified by the red-gold spills of the sun, are refreshed and prepared–a baptism of fire that leaves a canvas for the coming night.
In these last moments, when the day is still in the heavens, chasing the sun behind the horizon, there is a deep feeling of tranquility–even peace for the soul.
The night, with its fresh moon and softly budding stars, is the more beautiful when it comes but gently on the last fragile wisps of day.
