At Evening

While the sun was still high above the horizon, I fled to the outdoors, drinking in the evening coolness and the warmth of the slanting light. There was a delightful sense of apprehension or urgency – Light is the life of the wildflower hunt, and every day is a hunt when wildflowers are in bloom. So I chased the light.
From shadowed hollow with golden pools of sunlight, to warm and brilliant hillside, I followed the sun. It streamed through the slender trunks of pine trees, sparkling on threads of spider silk, casting long shadows, illuminating like glass the transparent greens of young grasses, the fiery fuchsia of shootingstar, the milky white of deathcamas, the sapphire of bluebells.
Tucked deep into the taller grasses in a sheltered place, larkspur violets spread themselves out in the evening light, some of them the palest of lavenders, others a deeper purple. Pussytoes grew like groves of tiny trees. Clusters of ballhead gilia caught the light in their tiny white flowers and on their velvety stems.
Catching sight of grazing deer ahead of me and over a little rise, I stopped suddenly and sat down quietly. Hastily and silently I changed my lens, and slipped the camera bag to the ground. I crawled closer, hoping to sneak up on them, but I got over-eager and they hightailed it into a ravine, their white tails waving like flags. Every time I see a herd of whitetails, their white tails bouncing and waving, I can’t help but think of the sense of humor of our Creator!
The sun disappeared behind the hills, and a dusky cool settled into the trees and over the hills. Grandma’s house was just over the next hill. When I walked home from visiting with her, it was dark, with the faintest turquoise still tinting the horizon. Lonely birds called and echoed. The stars were dim in the light from a brilliant moon. I opened my arms to the moonlight, as it trickled through the trees and silvered the whole landscape like a heavy frost. Perhaps it would freeze, but the warmth of the day still lingered in the air.