In our small town, the sun sets as it does in Mordor: powerful, vexing, hypnotic. Every evening the same sun sets in a new robe. Sometimes neon black, or battleship grey adorned with flamingo feathers, maybe a harsh purple bruise around a celestial orange.

Every sunset is a reminder of our Promethean curse, to return to our cliff and face our eagle. The sunset is full of myths and curses, it is the light of our labors, but the moon, the cold silver coin, calms & quiets.

Tonight, when earth pulls away from the sun, we’ll catch a glimpse of the royal trane before resting from our burdens. Be faithful to your burdens, let them teach you. The king will return in the morning, let him find us steadfast.