Yesterday was not an easy day in the Nest. The surgeon said that Stinkerbelle's lungs are both full of large and small bullae emphysema, and she is therefore not a candidate for surgery. She could have another pnuemothorax this afternoon, in six months, or never. I hate the words "full of it" and "nothing we can do."
So it was an unhappy and somewhat sleepless night in the Nest. But Mr. Big needed his walk this morning regardless of how I felt (Stinkerbelle is still on bedrest until I meet with the surgeon tomorrow to go over her CT scan in person), so I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30. It was that dusky time when the sun is still behind the mountains but light is starting to peep over them, and black night is fleeing westward. Light enough to walk, the dawn version of moody dusk light.
And then the sun rose high enough to set the clouds on fire, and it was breathtaking. A weather front had moved in yesterday, bringing warmish temperatures and high elevation clouds that scudded across the sky, and those sunbeams exploded in Winslow Homer shades, in real life, for the briefest of moments.
First came a deep orange-red, like a blood orange, that slowly filled the sky from east to west. Then the bottoms of the scudding clouds started to turn a deep orange-gold, which looked like waves of molten lava. As the sun finally crested the mountains, bringing with it that clear yellow-gold, the clouds briefly turned peach, then light gold. The sky, visible in long, thin fingers between the clouds, was turquoise.
And then the sun rose above the clouds, and they turned back to grey. Fleeting, magical, mysterious beauty.