Sunday Evening, Coming Home

Sunday Evening, Coming Home In the azure sky gilt-edged grey clouds billow like dingy sails adrift. A rosy glow rises from the west as the sun prepares to take her evening rest. The warm, still air throbs with the day's remaining life. Bats flutter as if in random flight, seeking insects with their radar sight. Sparrows flock to the trees to rest, while other birds of day take to their nest. My thoughts seem to rise on the still-shimmering columns of heat wafting skyward from the pavement. I, and my fellow travelers, seem content to bide our time in traffic's stagnant flow. It is Sunday, and no one seems in any great hurry to get home. Monday will come soon enough, bringing in another workaday week. In the meantime, there is no rush. The sky turns to a bright yellow hue. A sharp white line - jet vapor trail - divides receding day from encroaching night. Dark silhouetted trees, like painted effigies, loom before a backdrop of distant hills rimmed with daylight's last fires. Homeward to Marin, the sleeping princess, Tamalpa, as my guide, I cross the briny Black Point marsh. Where my other half bides her time I'll be anon, and we will reunite. Meanwhile my temporary solitude becomes a respite and safe haven as I soak in evening's grace and find solace in Nature's beauty. At last, a deep blood-red glow announces the sun's last gasp. Final fingers of light stab out against the growing dark, and fade. Grey wisps and streaks fill in the darkening sky as the fire atop the distant hills dims and fades. I cross the last narrow bridge, and there, like festive sparklers in a row, the city's lights shine testament to my destination. The journey's at an end at last, and I, the better for having taken it. 10/24/2001 Written October 24th, 2001 © on Jan 20 2002 03:44 PM PST, Heinz Scheuenstuhl    0 • 10