Sometimes the sunsets are grey and black; noir, even if the day has been bright in every way. The clouds form, lengthwise like fingers; blown together and apart, together and apart as if the gods, whose fingers are probably made of clouds seek to tease those of us on the ground looking up, with remnants of light.
You can have a normal day, so unremarkable you don’t even think about anything extraordinary at all and then you see that light shining between and out of the clouds, spreading along and down in a fan-like shape that is almost invisible, that is so thin it would be impossible to measure. And you feel something greater than yourself fill your heart.
The water in the bay churns, peaking as if pulled up on strings and you wonder if the light, the fingers have anything to do with it. The wind is slight, ineffectual, too weak at this moment to move even a blade of grass, let alone a body of water; yet the water continues to crest. Is it the gods cooling their fingertips after all that work with sunlight and clouds?
At the horizon the world is a silhouette, daubs of black and shadow. The darkness unfolds like an elegant lady letting down her hair at night. The reaches of clouds, long as the sky, open and close one last time. Leaves swirl as the wind rises, gliding into the water. The power of the light diminishes, pulling up its blankets; ready to fall asleep.