I decided to abandon my lovely desk in my room and try my hand at writing in the sunroom. This room is located a few steps down the hall, and it abounds in windows. The sun went down, presumably visible out of the West windows, its blinding rays conveniently blocked by a piece of trim around a window. The best view of the sky is hampered by a three-story apartment building just across the street from where I live. Nevertheless, I enjoy the orange and blue hues streaked with purple-gray evening clouds that mark the site of the setting sun. The view beyond the buildings is only possible in winter, when the enormous trees standing guard lose their summer visage to become black silhouettes against the skyline.
To my right is the other set of windows. These ones tell the tale of the city street, peopled with cars, choked with more cars by a dealership a breath away. Car horns, engine noise, sirens, and the like mar the silence I sought in the room with a view. Brake lights line the avenue, waiting impatiently for the red light to change. The file of cars is a tribute to the Christmas décor of the landscape—brake lights and glaring yellow-white headlights compete for the more appropriate decoration.
The sun has set. The horizon’s orange has turned to green. The porch and streetlights illuminate the dark like stars in the night sky. The noisy traffic and the steady lights send a message: the busy dark is the best place to shine.
*Note: this picture is not the view from the sunroom, but it is a photo I took.
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