The Magic Hour

the magic hour

Some days at sunset, a portal to another world opens in the nearby Arroyo Trabuco.  The air hangs thick with it. The trees stand still. The birds flutter almost apologetically from branch to branch, like children caught fidgeting at church.

Sunbeams so thick you could hang stockings out to dry on them.

It reminds me that there is something out there, beyond the strip malls and greenbelts that spell out the Southern California suburbs. It’s not on a timer like the sprinklers. You don’t have to board a plane to get there. Just go outside.

Blink and you’ll miss it.

Ciaran 200x100 SIG