If only I could find just the right words to describe the rising and setting of the sun here in the high country, here on the edge of the Divide, I would spin my words like silk and pour forth the soft and smooth flow of words that might justify the beauty that appears before me.
The change of day and night is subtle, simple and slow. There are no dramatic fireworks and brilliant explosions of light as I have witnessed while visiting the flats of the San Luis Valley or travelling across the Nebraska prairies where I have seen such bright displays of colors that vividly flash across the horizon and illuminate the sky with shades of fuchsia and vermillion and gold.
Here, it happens smoothly, cream slowly stirred into the gravy, the line of light creeping up or down the side of the mountain, so unhurried and leisurely you can not see the change if you sit and stare. But look away for a moment and you’ll notice a change, ever so slight and subtle.
It is quiet and still, both morning and night, as the sun sets or rises. The wind calms. The trees remain static and all sound seems hushed and muted. The deer and elk and moose choose this hour to wander out languidly in the flats and graze, serene and undisturbed.
In the morning, light begins with a faint glow, brightening my tent and calling me awake to the day. As if were for me? I know better than that, the power of indifference, and arise quickly to not miss her subtle spectacle that awaits no one.
In the evening, the light slowly fades before us, folding to a close, page after page after page, rather than the slamming of a book and sudden darkness. There is time enough to prepare, adjust, finish up the day, crawl into the tent and watch the glow fade to black. Which comes first, the absolute darkness of miles and miles around us from any light but the vast and infinite far away stars, or the shutting of my tired lids?