Flashing even a stray ray or two through the clouds, our sunsets here can be special. Yet we cannot see them directly. We could suit up, venture out, and attempt to peer uphill through the currently bare trunks and branches to the west. We might spy through those branches a hint of your backyard variety peachy, pearly, rosy sunset, but what fun is that? We're situated in an enormous teacup. This image has huge holes, Partner, (it's closer to a vast saucer, for instance) but float with me. We're clinging below the cup's south rim, watching our shadow creep out over Lake Zoar's waters; the surrounding high hills comprise the cup's inside. And those hills are drenched in bright sun.
North light is the artist's friend, I've been told. At this time of year, the tans, light pinks, rusty browns, brown browns, and occasional dusty greens on those hills are dandy enough to my eye, but at this time of day – I'm painting as fast as I can. They come alive, glowing and mellowing by the second. The reflections in the lake (why crank your neck skyward?) reveal clouds you hadn't noticed before, growing pink on the darkening blue water. No—in a blink, they're apricot. Too late—now they’re rose. And if you crane to the right, the northeast, through the panes of our lookout post here, you'll catch Great Southbury Hill catching fire. Smoldering, anyway. What a sight.
Now, Partner, we may explain the diurnal rolling of our island home – good night, dear Sun; see you in the morning – or note the motes in our troposphere and the spheres beyond, or speak of refractions and reflections. And we might analyze Uncle Frank's mustache. Phooey. The glory of our refracted, reflected, second hand sunset (besides its glory) is that it is a metaphor for the hand that strew those motes beyond counting and shaped all spheres far beyond our tropopause. For now, said Paul, we see in a mirror dimly (1 Cor. 13:12). This a prayer of gratitude.