Last night I made it my mission to chase the evening light and to capture the shadows it cast behind the trees. At first, the moss glowed green between fir trees that shone white in the light of a sun that had only just begun to set.
When the sun sank lower, I had to move to the edge of the garden, where the birches and last year’s yellow grass smouldered white and blinding. Almost impossible to look at because it was so bright.
Still later, I had to move up the slight incline behind our cabin to capture the reddening rays of the setting sun. An old baking cottage from the thirties (but still in use) lay in green shadow, but reflected the piercing gold from the horizon.
This was a strange place. The pine tree forest ended abruptly, along a straight line, to make place for fir trees. The towering pines dwarfed the younger trees, and the gathering dusk painted the firs in a smoky bluegreen colour that looked almost water-like.
Finally, the low-hanging sun dotted these lingonberry bushes with reddish glitter. It’s like a path of gold, leading the way to Phoebus himself.