Fort Fur

We made our way past the edge of the falling snow to the lip of the valley. The sunset had only begun, and we had to shield our eyes from the glittering light that flew from the sky, only to dazzle it’s way off of the sheet of pale white below. It was like watching the reflection of light off of an ocean, only this ocean was solid. At least, more so than water.

It would only last a few minutes, the transition of day into night, and the sky would paint arcs of red, raspberry, orange and gold. Winter sunsets, as fleeting as they are, are among the most beautiful. I wondered what people in countries that had no snow, or no real winter saw. Or if they’d ever seen something like it. I turned to catch him with his camera out, pointed at the horizon. One eye squinted closed, the short lashes brushing the fur of his cheek while the other eye, honed and ready, awaited the instant that the sun would clash with the distant mountains.

Photography was never my passion, but I understood the feeling of anticipation he must have had, then. I thought it similar to the moment the end of a sketch drew near. That plateau, as though getting there were some vertical climb. That feeling of relief, excitement. Having conquered the waiting, and the working, and having it pay off with that completion.

I could see his breath curl out in puffs of ghostly white on the air. Behind us, the sky had already started to darken. The line of night advancing on the armies of the sun, already retreating beyond the edge of the earth. The mechanical whir of the camera sounded, then, and I turned to see the canvas redden. The clouds blushed, and took on fire glow while, little by little, the shadowed fingers of the mountain curled closer to their origins. Rich in color, warm in sight, though the air around us was frigid, sunsets always struck me as what -should- be the warmest point of the day. When the light was so vibrant, deep. Powerful.

We stood there, saying nothing. His camera lowered, and one of his strong hands fished my paw out of my pocket. The air was cold, but I didn’t care. Fingers laced and we witnessed the dying of the light. Until, like a single, giant firefly, the sun gave off one last speck of wild luminescence, and curled up behind the mountains to rest.

After a few moments of watching the horizon, reverently, we turned and made our way back to the car. His hooves left deep grooves in the still-falling snow, while my shuffling pawsteps made tiny ruts. Ruts that would disappear in an hour or so, given the rate of snowfall.

With one last look at the jagged row in the distance, we got in the car and drove off to find our own warmth. One that the sun might have envied.