Driving Rte. 7 yesterday evening at sunset. Orange glow of sun and clouds setting over the Adirondacks and Lake Champlain. The almost full moon rising over the Green Mountains, dancing with darkening clouds in the China blue sky. Deep feelings rise up that are hard to put into words. Nobody does a better job of it than Willa Cather.
The sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or ghost moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world.
In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of these fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there.
My Antonia
Willa Cather
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