Great sky, I can always count on you to bring my eyes up at just the right moment. This morning, you are bathed in the softest hue of crimson red. You shine your light upon the pine’s branches and upon my window as I sit here at this desk. The mountain is still; your light stays to the East and only covers half way. It is as though God has turned his lamp on in that part of his room. I am looking, as though, through a stained glass window of leaves and pine branches hanging down in long tendrils of pine hair. Softly, softly, slowly, slowly—the crimson glow recedes.