Amber day

Colorado has a singular quality of afternoon light that I marvel at. Houses, roofs, trees, and every man-made object and natural living thing become transformed in its glow. Yesterday I really noticed it and jotted down these thoughts:

There was a glorious golden light today on everything outside my reading window in the guest room where I work on my laptop. Unaware of that part of the world until I really focused, my breath was taken away by the dried and browned beauty of the tea roses still standing with their twisted and curled leaves paperlike and moving in the wind. If I leaned in closely near the glass, I could hear birds chirping incessantly as well as the scattered barking of neighborhood dogs and a car engine a few blocks away. I like to sit in this sunny spot to read and am happy to observe the world from here without going out to be chilled by the wind and distracted by the reality of what needs to be done to button up the garden for winter. Winter has been here for quite a while. Only a portion of chores was accomplished before that window of preparatory time passed. It almost feels like winter, too, is passing, though the crabapples are dull red on the bare branches, and several kinds of thyme between the pavers are still shades of gray. The perennial herbs will be the first to green up as the weather warms slightly. But not today. Today lies under an amber veil and individual colors remain desaturated like those in an altered photo. The life inside is suppressed, held back and waiting. I took occasional sunny reading breaks from my web tutorials in the morning, but by afternoon my reading book took over. I felt and watched the subtle path of warm light gradually move across my shoulders to finally form a spotlight on the large aloe plant in the corner. That mother's voice inside my head might tell me I've wasted my afternoon. My soul thinks otherwise.