Where I live, in Northern Idaho, at 48.2766° North by 116.5535 West, the sun is always at an angle and from the forest floor its rays filter through a thick veil of towering old firs, spruce, pine, larch, hemlock, cedars and a dappling of paper birch and quaking aspen.
In early morning, Aurora touches the Selkirk Mountains with the narrow tendrils of dawn, suddenly piercing a distant path, then abandoning it for another. After her first flush, she climbs eastward toward full throated or crouching forenoons. Throughout the day, the sunlight shifts between different characters.
The Middle Hours
Sometimes, it may wane, filtering through low-hanging mists, or it may sparkle and bounce, then wander into cool puddles, finally returning with a golden light to embrace an afternoon vignette. Eventually, it makes a final heraldic retreat behind the Monarch’s. When it finally disappears, the darkness becomes so deep that no matter how close you hold your hand to your face, you can’t see it.
Oh, but on clear nights, your soul may embark on a mystical journey of celestial illuminations. Reflected light that pours down bright from a lantern-like moon, or gleams from a purpled crescent, and then slips into a rhapsody of shimmering galaxies, that dust the wild and pristine with silvered star shine, and then subsides once again into an inky black spill.