Sunset

By John A. Wilson

The highway stretches out before me like a long black ribbon. My ears are numb from the monotonous drone of the powerful diesel engine that leads me on yet another trek to the West Coast. The high plains are relentlessly eaten by the big wheels under me, but the mountains in the distance seem to get no closer. The only indication that time is passing is the sun's inexorable slide toward the distant peaks.

As the sun's lower edge touches the clouds that hang above the distant mountains like a halo, they seem to catch fire. A brilliant orange spreads along their edges as the sun sinks behind the uppermost clouds. The fire has spread to the edges of the entire cloud bank as the sun briefly hides itself behind them. Soon the sun's lower edge peeks out beneath the clouds. It has grown to twice its earlier size and now the entire western sky bursts into flame. The brilliant orange hue is upon all of the clouds, seemingly constant, but still constantly changing as the sun continues to slide down toward the distant peaks as if seeking refuge there. The clouds have now turned dark red as the sun slowly completes its journey downward and the brilliant flames slowly die.

Still awed by the spectacle that I have witnessed, I reach down, turn on my headlights, plug in an old George Jones cassette and continue my trek westward, the beautiful sunrise now only a vivid memory.