On Hood Canal this weekend I saw the perfect thing in a cloudy blue hour’s sky, at the tail end of a deep blue day, before the fireworks started; at the moment when there was just a little light left, as much from the water as from the sky.
When I looked towards the sunset, way out there past the Brothers, which were completely black, along with everything else across the canal: hills, mountains, houses, bridges, forests and the clear-cuts, all uniform black except for the minutest contrast in the snowcaps; twilight on the water and in the fading sky, with a ragged black stripe of the world across the middle —
When I looked towards the sunset I saw the crescent moon, tiny and low, a faint white on the faintest blue-gold twilight and not more than a degree or two higher than the Brothers. Distances compressed along a line of sight: two miles across the canal, another ten or so to the Brothers, two hundred thousand and some to the moon, and somewhere in between an ocean, a planet, the scrambling futility of life on earth. The perfect thing, and then the blue hour ended and I went back to my own life.