Two weeks ago I drove through central Texas. The sky was that same afternoon blue. The sun was orange. A hunk of tangerine at the horizon squeezed and seeping, bleeding bronzed light. 65 degrees. The crows had crawled back out from their subterranean holes and cackled attached to utility poles and strip center store fronts. Soon, all this light would be devoured. Night loomed over everything. Yet, at this time, at this instant, everything was perfect. A different god coudn’t design this world any better.
All of that is gone. Since then a front has hung over everything turning this light into constant grey, the same grey that will be here until skin shedding March.