This was the view last night out of our kitchen window.
The sun was setting over Lake Superior and the high dunes of the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. The sunset was stunning, unusually vivid and massive, taking up the whole sky. So we took pictures and then we looked again and it was more stunning. It was like the end of a symphony when some people in the audience start to applaud but quickly realize there is more. The silence doesn’t mean it’s over. It means wait.
We waited as the sunset became more and more glorious, deeper and richer, more golden, layered like velvet drapes from the sand to the North Star and then it was night. We took a dozen pictures, each one just short of the full magic that unfolded next. And then it was night.
This morning at breakfast, looking out the window in the same direction, the sun having risen in the bluest sky above the bluest lake, my husband asked me, “After that sunset last night and being here in this place, would you be okay if you died right now?”
No, I answered.
But I got what he meant. It was that kind of sunset.