Advancing Evening—Part 2

As the sun dips even farther below the western horizon, it grows ever darker. (I remind myself that the sun really stays right where it is; it's we who are rotating away from it.) I look upward, wondering how soon I'll spot the first evening's star. The sky is a medium indigo color—not quite yet ready to reveal that first pin point of starlight. 

It hits me that I am watching a game of “photon competition.” As the sun's profuse outpouring of photons (call it bright light) gets intercepted by yonder ridge, it lowers the light level surrounding me. As the sun’s photons decrease, the much fewer photons I receive from distant stars will begin to get a chance to be noticed. Those stars scattered out their abundant allotment of photons millions of years ago—a scant few of them finally reaching my eye. They will become visible only when the arriving nighttime reduces the sun's photons to near nonexistence.

The opposite of the rising ridge-shadow phenomenon visits in the morning, as the sun's first rays illuminate the very tips of trees. The shadows then retreat down the tree trunks—slowly yielding to the new day's light. 

I am reminded of a time a decade ago, when I meandered through Glacier National Park in Montana, and then across the border into Canada's Waterton Lakes National Park—the other half of that gorgeous Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park. Camped on the Canadian side, I arose before dawn to watch the morning's light slowly grow. I was greeted by the stunning sight of a distant, tall Rocky Mountain peak bathed in a golden spotlight, as the sun lit up the top of the mountain. I was riveted by the view, watching the brilliant yellow creep down the mountain. Then I noticed a dark, horizontal line etched across the mountain’s face. Curious! It didn't seem as if it could be a rock formation, so what could it be? Then it seemed to grow a wee bit larger and even appeared to undulate. Curioser! 

Perplexed, I stared at this wavering black line, and then noticed that it took on the appearance of a string of black pearls on a quivering necklace. Finally, I watched as the black pearls transformed into tiny Canada geese. Their wide V-formation grew larger, bore down upon me, and eventually flew overhead. By then, the mountain was half bathed in light, and I was still standing, unmoving, stunned.

When you take the time to register the sun's slow creep, as shadows steal sluggishly across the landscape, like the minute hand of a clock, another world exposes itself to you...a world that our rushed pace usually keeps hidden from us. It's great to step away from that bustle and become aware of a more measured world—one that lights up those serene places in our consciousness.

Advancing Evening—Part 1

Our little homestead clearing in the woods sits in sort of a bowl, kind of like a four-sided hollow, surrounded by Shenandoah Valley ridges. The morning sun doesn't rise above the eastern ridge until about an hour after daybreak; later on, it dives below the western ridge about an hour before sunset. 

We usually partake of our outdoor tub bath in the evening, so I often watch the dusk creep in, as I steep in the hot water for an hour and more. As the sun dips below the western ridge behind me, I gaze at the shadow of that ridge slowly ascending the trees surrounding me. Arching over me is a quadruple-trunk sycamore tree that I feel is a sacred gift to gaze upon. Bark readily peels from sycamores, exposing an almost-white under bark on the upper portion of the trees. As the ridge's shadow steadily climbs the tree, the top pale branches—still in sunlight—beam out like a multiple-forked lighthouse. 

In spring the birds fill the air with their territorial songs, especially in the early mornings and at evening's dusk, as I sit here soaking. At sundown, it's as if they are singing with the express purpose of raising that ridge's shadow up the tree trunk. 

A raucous Carolina wren incessantly and loudly calls nearby, refusing to pause for a second, until I perform a poor job of imitating its song. He stops, probably stunned by my weird whistle, wondering who that badly song-handicapped bird is. In a few seconds he seems to regard the interruption as being of no consequence to his evening’s pronouncements, and he resumes his monotonous, ear-penetrating call. 

The air is saturated with many other avian songs—mourning doves, a cardinal, goldfinches, chickadees—none of them able to rival the loudness of the wren.

The ridge's shadow steadfastly climbs ever higher up the tree trunk, now leaving only the tip of the sycamore peeking into the sunlight. My attention gets diverted for a minute by a couple of feinting chickadees who are attempting to establish their territorial ownership, and when I look back upwards, even the tip of the tree is now in shadow. Gradually the light level continues to drop. It's a signal for the birds, one by one, to button up their beaks and settle down for the night. Dusk and stillness begin to fall across the land. 

The noisy wren is the last to finally stop singing—leaving me to bask in the darkening quiet. Every so often a barred owl emits a muted hoot, off in the deep woods. During the summer, the evening air’s acoustic space would now begin to be filled with insect songs, as they initiate their all-night chorus. But for now, it's a blessedly hushed twilight zone.

More Advancing Evening next time...