Ghostly Rising Sun

I’m a fortuitous witness to another day’s end. Walking along the gravel road, I watch the changing light transform the mountain range into subtle hues of pink, this radiant event gives purpose to my day when nothing else seems to have. I walk toward this spectacle in a trance, letting it seduce me like a warm bed of pastel blankets on a cool autumn eve. Everything is aglow reflecting the sun, but it’s fading too fast, closing the shades upon the mountains into a deep purple mound of slumber. This sudden change stops me from moving any closer, as if they are cueing me to turn around and leave them be so they can retire into the night. As I turn to make my way back home, a breath of hot air blows against the back of my neck, a kiss goodnight from all that is sacred.

Beyond the sun’s demise, the air remains still and summer warm. The dust remains silent to its own, the only sounds are my footsteps crunching upon the earth. The sun is a silent weaver, with its quiet arrival and departure, yet even though it is out of sight I can still feel its presence, lingering like a ghost.

I’ve made it home before darkness set in. Exiting myself from another day, I enter into the corners of solitude where I will dwell upon the page to capture the previous scene. It is here where I can relive the moment, bearing witness to the changing of the guard, where the light of day was absorbed into a dusky scent of evening shade. It is here where I find solace between the blank sheets that enfold me with purpose; to witness, to write, and to wait until the secret entrance of the ghostly rising sun appears through my window in the dawn.