What can I tell you about a night that's almost-dark? About that vulnerable half hour when the sky has softened, become denuded of all but the quietest pink light? Coming inside from it, I can tell you that it is gently held. The day does not go down alone. It isn't abandoned by the sun but carried with it, as if the sun has a pocket, or holds the day in its cupped hands against its heart.
I can tell you that everywhere I look at the world, I see love.