Dusk. That’s what it’s all about, baby. Any point in the year but especially during autumn, when the dark comes a little earlier, the trees start painting pictures and the little breezes begin to nip at the nape of your neck. That’s the ticket. That’s the stuff.
Up here in the summer it can be light for 15, 20 hours a day. In the winter, it will be black skies on your way to and from work. Right now, though, is that sweet spot where I can walk home from work, and cross the bridge and look over…
Oh, darlin’, the way those colors fall asleep in front of the mirror that is the bay, draping themselves over the shoulders of the mountain just beyond it. Tangerines into citrines, emeralds into aquamarine, oceans into ebony, and there – just beyond that canopy – you can see those starry eyes just opening, just coming awake for the artist’s hours.
Last night I looked down on the stream coursing beneath me. No fishers disturbed its steady path. No fish broker it’s surface. It bubbled and burbled and ran on, serene under the last heavy breaths of day, an excerpt of perfect naturalism away from the noise and metal drudgery of the downtown that existed just a short distance nearby.
On my way home, the port sits to the left of me. At dusk, a handful of solitary cars pull away to head home, their headlights breaking through the pale most of September evening. The shipping containers look lonely out there as the darkness gradually envelops them, and warehouses that look long abandoned sit like haunted sentinels with halogen lights casting sickly glows across the rocks.
I want to break into one so bad, but I never have time except my days off and I’ve got too many things to do, and I’m lazy, and also that’s illegal.
To my right is what appears to be the train repair station. It opens up at night and locomotives and cabooses and whatever those middle parts are called (I think they’re just cars?) chugga-chug lazily along the tracks until they’re between the walls, under the roof and sidled up next to a platform. I can hear the rough but unclear voices of the engineers as they call instructions to each other. Or maybe they’re just shooting the breeze while they work and sparks fly out and skitter across the ground.
I round the bend and enter was stretch of road where there are no steady lamps to guide my journey. Just leaning trees on one side – leaves changing clothes into something more vibrant – and reliable pavement on the other, trembling under the occasional vehicle lumbering past. The breeze was on my back last night, a cool, coaxing push that led me upwards. I relied on familiarity to guide my feet up until I found the pale white light of the gas station parking lot and the final vestiges of sunlight sank down behind the horizon.
Then I was home. Then the euphoria slowly faded.
Dusk, baby. That’s what it’s all about.