At the Golden Hour
Except it’s not an hour ... it actually lasts just a few minutes and happens only at this time of year. For those few minutes, this otherwise drab and mundane alley becomes the setting for a glow – an incandescent light show. Beyond that, it’s challenging to find the words. But I know of someone who could find them. For instance ...
“We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before setting, after a cold, gray day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon and on the leaves of the shrub oaks on the hillside, while our shadows stretched long over the meadow east- ward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and ever, an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.”
-- Thoreau, “Walking”
At the Golden Hour
Except it’s not an hour ... it actually lasts just a few minutes and happens only at this time of year. For those few minutes, this otherwise drab and mundane alley becomes the setting for a glow – an incandescent light show. Beyond that, it’s challenging to find the words. But I know of someone who could find them. For instance ...
“We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before setting, after a cold, gray day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon and on the leaves of the shrub oaks on the hillside, while our shadows stretched long over the meadow east- ward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and ever, an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.”
-- Thoreau, “Walking”