I’ve lived 23 years of my life in Colorado. Favorite Pikes Peak moments always seem to be the sunsets, where the light seeps beyond the outline of the mountain as though falling behind clouds to the north, sometimes with rays beaming down like God is talking, speaking through all that surrounds.

Eventually, the mountain becomes a black silhouette cut against the darkened sky, fading into night, yet always darker than the sky, like ripped paper layering and layering, each range another depth.

Birds continue to call their young home, and the cooler air settles in once again, offering reprieve for the night. I’ve witnesses pink and purple sunsets; the misty silence of a cloudy season; torrents of rain covering the mountain; a blizzard shrouding; orange and blue sunsets reminiscent of the Broncos; and no sunsets when I’ve been too busy to take in the majesty of it all. 

On evenings when I’ve allowed the air to cool and darken from silhouettes of lengthening shadows falling into darkness, and streaks of color accompanying the experiences, I am thankful for pausing for a few minutes within a miracle.

 

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