a year of morning thanks
The big, colorful dawns, like the big sunsets, are all on a rheostat. There's nobody flikking light switches, not a chorus of angels or a squad of wizards leaning anxiously over some massive light board. At just the right time, the heavens come alive at the horizon, its radiance shifting so effortlessly that the whole, gigantic pallette seems liquid.
From my office window last night, I couldn't help but notice an unmistakable glow, where something extraordinary was going on. I climbed in the Tracker, rode just a mile or so west to the edge of town, and caught little more than the last act of an incredible show, but enough to know that what had developed on that monumental stage had been no ordinary dusk.
There ain't no way to get that kind of a show in a lens or on a sensor--I don't care how many megapixels. But you can try. So I did.
So this is a scene from a incredible show that will never, ever play again--even though, if I keep my eyes open, I'm quite sure there will be more astonishing work from the artist.
This morning, I'm thankful to have been there, even if I caught only the falling action.