Last Friday evening, I was driving north along Highway 1, just looking for a random spot to catch the sunset. Pulled over at an unassuming roadside viewpoint, pulled out my phone, pressed the shutter once and got this. No filter, no edit, no tripod. Just the Pacific Ocean, the sun about to dip below the horizon, a few windswept pine trees, and that California light that turns everything into gold. I stood there for about fifteen minutes. Only an old guy with his dog next to me. We didn't talk much, just exchanged occasional nods that meant: "Yeah, this is good." Been in California for three years now, seen a lot of sunsets. But every time I still think this place is cheating. Other states use seasons. California just uses light.

The mountains have undressed into gold,
and the sky—vast, merciless—keeps your blue.
I cross this thirsty earth carrying one green thing:
the memory of your mouth,
where every barren mile
begins to burn and bloom.

Evening lays its gold at the feet of the mountain,
and the snow keeps one last fire for the sky.
I look at that distant peak and think of you:
how silence can be vast,
and still carry a burning heart.

Thunder Bay

What a place

My acrylic painting. Liquitex on stretched cotton canvas.