On the drive up from Phoenix, she took pictures of the clouds as they lost their pink light the color of her hair. Her love went into her shots, refusing to die down with the sun, setting below the mountains to the west. She held on to the light as it faded, found within a light that would remain until that outer light returned, a strength no sunset could weaken. She zoomed in on her subject and came closer to herself. Panning out, she found perspective. She looked through her lens out the window, now east towards what was rising, now west towards what was setting.

As the light slipped away and the night overcame the day, she grasped the beauty of the in-between, day giving reign to night, night becoming day. And when is night not becoming day? When is day not growing into night? Beauty does not reside only in those few moments shortly before the sun rises, but in all moments when something is rising. In all moments, for something is always rising, coming into being, becoming. As the sun went down, the moon was coming up. In a day or two it would be full.