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I am on the train from San Francisco to Saratoga and looking out at a glorious twilight as the landscape cascades past in ever darkening shades of mauve and crimson. I remember the subtle dip of the upper side of the cupid’s bow of Claire’s mouth as the sunset begins. Above there are low hanging clouds rimmed with a pinkish gold that is the color of the bridesmaids dresses last summer. Claire with her partner Emily dancing. Their love is a beautiful thing, and as natural as my surroundings. Now the golden outline of the apocalyptic clouds seems somehow to signify bliss, to signify the total abandon I can only barely remember from my childhood river where we caught fireflies on warm summer evenings and the tartness of blackberries we picked was fresh in my mouth. I had nearly forgotten the taste of carelessness, working incessantly starting an environmental nonprofit. I learned about the genealogy of ideas that allowed for the creation of environmental preserves. Thoreau wrote Walden, Muir read Thoreau, Theodore Roosevelt read Muir, and we got National Parks. My commute was meant to be crammed full of heavy reading, and yet confronted with the enigmatic glow of dusk amid the magical splendor of the early autumn California skyline, I find it impossible to look away. I don’t remember what day it is anymore and I have forgotten the subject of tomorrow’s test. Half past Mountain View and the sun’s almost set as I find myself thinking of how self-centered I might be, to relate my life to the life of the heavens, as if I’m so important, as if I’m living with Greek Gods or something. The light catches the shoulder of a shorebird and gleams brilliant brown. The final twinkling of dark auburn envelops us into

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