The Dance Of The False Dawn

The Dying Throes of Dusk

The Dying Throes of Dusk

GULF ISLANDS NATIONAL SEASHORE, FL—I sat in the van, parked in a deserted beach-side lot and gazed out the window as the sun set on a day full of turbulent clouds while the sky came alive in a swirling mixture of reds and oranges and yellows and blues.

It is pleasant here—quiet and secluded in an empty lot next to a national seashore—so I decided to make it my home for the night. I shifted seats to the passenger side and put my feet up and started to read, but a few moments later, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a glowing orange orb cresting the eastern horizon, and my mind—in its hurry to label and categorize and know—told me it was the sun rising, but it was the full moon cresting into view, huge and aglow and magnified beautifully by the clear, crisp low air.

The Gulf waters lapped at the shore and a cool breeze rustled the tall dune grass and a smile formed on my face as I stared in awe and gratitude and love.

And the moon—ever so gently—rose silently upward into the still and deep and darkening sky.

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