This is the golden phase of last night’s dusk, as the last of the sun slides behind Deer Isle to our west and darkness begins to creep over Great Cove and up the snow-clad field.
Shortly after darkness, the sunset’s afterglow turned the clouds into bands of pink wool and the deer began to arrive in the field. But, by then, I had beaten a hasty retreat to the warmth of the house. [Note to self: you simply must stop running outside in shirtsleeves on beautiful, cold nights.] (Brooklin, Maine)