Walking the dogs at the waning of a Sunday afternoon. This time next week, it will be dark and, if not wintry in weather, certainly wintry in mood. There is something that makes me feel at peace with the world in observing the passing of time through the ritual of the seasons, as if everything is as it should be.
While Ottie and Portia run down a dirt road, I am enjoying the balmy air, the cotton wool clouds high in the sky and the serendipity of a deer crossing our path.
Then, all of a sudden, the air stands still, nature goes quiet, in that window of time when the birds stop chirping and the cicadas haven’t intoned their song yet: the clouds start reflecting tinges of pink and orange and the sky deepens its blue.
A gust of cold air rushes over my bare shoulders, making me turn towards the way home. The light deepens, the pinks and oranges now so intense, as if in a final burst before relinquishing to darkness.
There are fewer things more beautiful than a Californian sunsets. On this particular Sunday afternoon, I can’t think of any.