The day was announcing itself as we drove east on Hawthorne Boulevard. Maty and I were enchanted by a rare and roseate dawn.
A layer of clouds reached out from the west, forming an inverted topography. Stubborn patches of departing night lingered in cloudy folds, blue as any mountain lake. Westward, where nighttime was thickest, lay a forbidding, inverted ocean --mysterious, malicious, in full retreat. To the east, where the sun was yet hidden by Tabor's silhouette, the cutting edge of daytime shone like the firmament. Or like the Holy Host marching to victory across the coral cloudscape.
All of it inverted, of course.
We looked on, just as stars might do, were they to gaze upon us now and then and be stricken by our own beauty.
But shortly, events pulled us back to our grubby, summer-dried boulevard. I regretted turning away while the moment lingered. .
A sunrise is a brief and beautiful thing. Perhaps we are thus to stars.