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. The morning light, impish, trips down a distant path, then abandons all around into cool shadowed puddles, returning to embrace a poignant vignette with golden beams of warming, afternoon rays.
Helios arrives in narrow tendrils over the Selkirk Mountains, shifts with various personalities through out the day and then makes a last heraldic retreat beyond the Monarchs. With its leave there descends a darkness so deep and final that your hand remains invisible no matter how close you might hold it to your face. Oh, but on clear nights, the soul is treated to a mystical journey of celestial illumination, that pours down at first from a lantern-like moon, or gleams from a purpled crescent, slipping 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.