But here's something that belongs here: the light. Yesterday, fog was coming in off the ocean and creeping up over the mountains, making the west even more dark and gloomy than normal first thing in the morning. But there were still clouds to the east, with the exception of a little patch right above Boulder Creek - a little hole just above the rising sun, so that the light wasn't shining directly through like the face of God, but indirectly and through a nimbus, like a Merchant Ivory film about God. The effect, as I was driving westward to drop off Badb, was to bathe the trees and houses in striking gold light that was entirely out of keeping with the flat gray of the sky behind it. It was amazing, and I wanted to be able to pull over and appreciate it for a while, but time and tide and giant mountains of work wait for no man, and don't wait long for this woman, either.
On the way home, there was a similar phenomenon: as the sun set to the west through a haze of fog, the sky to the east looked like a giant cyclorama lit up to suggest twilight. Splashes of blue and purple across the sky had whitish centers to them and were skewed and warped like the light from well-placed spotlights with colored gels. What play would unfold in front of such a giant set? It would have to be something wonderful, because the nature of the world is such that this beautiful night would be followed by dawn, when everything is washed new and all is forgiven.
The light this morning was beautiful, but not the same. I wonder if yesterday will be one of those days that I remember my whole life.