In late November, the shade grows quickly over the landscape in the hills behind Albuquerque. From about 3 p.m. on, the shadows surge longer and longer, and if you’re hiking on the backside of the Sandia Mountains, it’s a chiaroscuro drama. But sometimes, as you walk up a gentle canyon, you come over a rise and there’s a pristine shaft of light glowing on the trees just above your head. If you could stretch your frame a few feet higher you might dip your hand in the sunset. We live in light and dark, we communicate between them. To see them both at the same time is…to be embodied, to feel sadness and joy, to appreciate. Something.
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