We walk through the cool evening sky so darkly colored in an ever-deepening blue. There are no stars in this sky. This sky. The one that hangs heavy and low, the kind we know so well here in this land of earth and water and trees. The blue light seeps into my skin. We walk briskly through the park so green, strolling between large old houses and large old trees and the edge of a bluff. Down below runs the railroad, marina and waters of Puget Sound.
It’s empty. Quiet. Open but dark. Fresh. The trees stand tall above. We walk in sync, a rare but delicious pocket of time with a loose leash and no tension and a shared stride, gliding through the cool air on the same invisible cloud. This pocket is never long enough.
I note that I should soak this in, as if I wasn’t already. I realize it is the second to last night here for a while. I’ll miss this place. This air. These trees and mountains and waters. The people.
When we return and meet these skies and waters and trees again, this season will have transformed itself into the next. More than five weeks will have passed.
Before the dawn breaks on Friday, southward we go, to where desert and water and a hot sun collide.
29 hours until departure.