#32: Etched in Steel

A sunset brings up memories of long ago.

The sky calls—magenta, ruby red, the lurid orange of a kuri squash, a hint of gold leaf still below the horizon. It’s going to be a good one. I hurry to dress, grab GP’s leash and we’re out the door. First north out the heart gate. East down the alley. Colors shining through and defining trees etched in steel.

Etched in steel…

I remember a lover of many decades passed using that phrase as we come to a crawl on Seattle’s now demolished Alaskan Way Viaduct during rush hour—the sun rays sandwiched between the Olympic Mountains and low laying clouds to the west, their brilliance mirrored on downtown windows. It is as if I am driving on a concrete ribbon through coals in my wood-stove.

Here's a photo of another sunset right out my front door. The colors are brilliant but they don’t hold a candle to the ones I remember.