The red sunset in the earlier picture was beautiful. The moon at a little half past full had a soft orange tint. A jet, coming down into San Jose with its landing lights on looked like it had a pair of red headlights that cut through the smoke a half a mile ahead, a great orange scythe of light.
It is cool, a welcome relief from the heat. Children and parents splashed in the pool, late. The neighbors sat outside, softly playing guitar and singing Mexican folk songs about smugglers and lovers and the desert.
I turned down the lights, pulled back the cool sheets and laid down, the room lit by the single lamp. I picked up my book and settled in to read of men and monsters in Idaho. (The book is "Monster" by Frank Peretti.) A trick of the light makes the glass chess pieces on the table by the window glow golden. The black fan near the foot of the bed swivels in a relentess sweep, washing the room with currents of air. The glass of water on the desk beads up.
I wonder about the woman in red in last nights dream, who called my name in her bright and soft voice.
I think of the poet William Cullen Bryant - "Hence, these shades are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof of green and stirring branches is alive and musical with birds, that sing and sport in wantoness of spirit;...".
So ends a day, and ending, begins that gentle journey to dawn, whose herald, I hope, will wake me with a bright and soft voice. Sent via BlackBerry by AT
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