The Way Home

I am comfortable driving home before dusk with a soundscape and the windows down. I am in between bridges and lines, and my dog is with me with her nose out of the window into the wind. 

The last heat of the day rises from the asphalt's reflection of the sun, low and setting fast down the road. I cannot tell when moments like this one will come, but then, time slows. The sky is all watery orange and pushing against the trees and rows of electric poles. There is infinite and unfolding geometry underneath the light I see. In variation each is a perfect ephemeral moment, and I am now noticing this. 

Sunsets don’t exist, really. They are a perception driven by our daily rotation, and by where, how, and who we are when they come. 

Go on and chase the sun further, past the houses and hills. Follow it into the sea. But first, turn right to head home.

The electric wires on this street all run between trees from one side to the other against the sky and waves of rising heat. The northern sky is thick and still blooms orange, but also lavender and the ground slopes away.