09/10/2022
The last of the day hung on to the high edges of the hills. Subtle warmth, hints of purple, and a sky slowly softening. The day beats on you all day out here, the Southern deserts of California, and then it rewards you for a while. Your skin, your eyes, the air, sheltered as the dying star sets below the horizon, or a mountain top, or an old building. The relief sets in as coolness creeps over the place. But that wry sucker isn’t letting you off, no way. It’s called Magic Hour. Merely a respite from one trial before the next one. See, as the night comes in so do the deepening shadows, the ghouls we imagine, the wicked hand that is real. Predators are not so obscure in the dimming light at the end of the day.