The other evening, the sunset was so gorgeous that I had to go on a walk to get some pictures. The light was everywhere, dressing my home in deep, true reds and light, happy yellows.
There was a field with trees, their tips dipped in red.
The sun burned in its farewell, with the promise of tomorrow.
There was a puddle of freezing water, filled with light and leaves and pine needles. It begged to get its picture, and I obliged while some guy drove past. He stared, with a “What are you getting a picture of a puddle for?” look on his face. Some people don’t understand, I suppose.
The yellow and pink clouds were fluffy and scattered, hiding behind the bare trees.
The sky was blue, stretching for one last kiss from the light before it embraced the dark and its treasures.
Drifting in the harsh and cold wind, the pink clouds bowed in farewell (only to come back later to shield our eyes from the stars).
The trees stood, unmoved, as always.
The other evening, the fire was hot, and I was warm and happy.