Coda.

9 pm, Dungeness

To the south of us, high in the Olympics, a low sun rakes jagged aretes between hanging snowfields, peach colored and soft; an anvil of cloud invades darkening blue; below the ridges, soft gray clouds break open to the bright hard-edged green of clear-cuts pasted on the slopes of rounded foothills.

In the north, Dungeness Bay burnishes bronze on water, coral on mudflats; a low sea fog levitates the San Juan Islands, above the Strait and below pink and white clouds and baby-blue sky; gestures of charcoal, smudges of pale gray, add depth.

To the far northeast, over water and Cascade foothills, Mount Baker’s volcanic snowcone hovers in peach alpenglow. New Dungeness Lighthouse marks eternity in four second increments at the end of Dungeness Spit, five miles out, small and phosphorescent against the power of sunset, it will soon be the dominant light through our short night.

In the northwest, rich burgundy sunset fire burns a lace pattern through hard streaks of gunmetal clouds. Cue the orchestra, fade to black.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Tandem, An American Love Story

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