Island Sunset Quotes

It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.

This is a new point in my life, and things are totally changing. But like the sunsets I saw on Tybee Island, the miles I’ve already gone are going to stay with me.

Bilbo’s Last Song Day is ended, dim my eyes, But journey long before me lies. Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall. Foam is white and waves are grey; Beyond the sunset leads my way. Foam is salt, the wind is free; I hear the rising of the Sea. Farewell, friends! The sails are set, The wind is east, the moorings fret. Shadows long before me lie, Beneath the ever-bending sky, But islands lie behind the Sun That I shall raise ere all is done; Lands there are to west of West, Where night is quiet and sleep is rest. Guided by the Lonely Star, Beyond the utmost harbour-bar, I’ll find the heavens fair and free, And beaches of the Starlit Sea. Ship, my ship! I seek the West, And fields and mountains ever blest. Farewell to Middle-earth at last. I see the Star above my mast!

It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

Let me sing you a waltz / Out of nowhere, out of my thoughts / Let me sing you a waltz / About this one night stand / You were, for me, that night / Everything I always dreamt of in life / But now you're gone / You are far gone / All the way to your island of rain / It was for you just a one night thing / But you were much more to me, just so you know / I don't care what they say / I know what you meant for me that day / I just want another try, I just want another night / Even if it doesn't seem quite right / You meant for me much more than anyone I've met before / One single night with you, little Jesse, is worth a thousand with anybody / I have no bitterness, my sweet / I'll never forget this one night thing / Even tomorrow in other arms, my heart will stay yours until I die / Let me sing you a waltz / Out of nowhere, out of my blues / Let me sing you a waltz / About this lovely one night stand

To my surprise, I find the most relevant commentary on a marriage that continues into the sunset years comes from the radical German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who, in an atypically practical frame of mind, wrote, 'When marrying, ask yourself this question: Do you believe that you will be able to converse well with this person into your old age? Everthing else in marriage is transitory.

The sunsets here were always deep, passionate, and rich - always colors Camila thought she could take a shovel to and dig at for days.

Columbus's real achievement was managing to cross the ocean successfully in both directions. Though an accomplished enough mariner, he was not terribly good at a great deal else, especially geography, the skill that would seem most vital in an explorer. It would be hard to name any figure in history who has achieved more lasting fame with less competence. He spent large parts of eight years bouncing around Caribbean islands and coastal South America convinced that he was in the heart of the Orient and that Japan and China were at the edge of every sunset. He never worked out that Cuba is an island and never once set foot on, or even suspected the existence of, the landmass to the north that everyone thinks he discovered: the United States.

Welcome each day like a good meal. The essence of a life well digested comes from knowing your strengths, overdosing on the senses and remaining active and playful. Keep you hands on the plow, push don't ever stop pushing always be willing to give a little more energy-the tension may always be there. Then your life will never go limp

Her dreams were full of sundering rivers and windswept plains and towering mountains with their shoulders in the clouds, of green islands verdant in the sun, of strange beasts no man had tamed and queer fruits no man had tasted, of golden cities shining underneath strange stars.

Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and make allowances. She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can’t speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it and talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color-mad: brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the wastes of space — none of them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty, that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them. If she could quiet down and keep still a couple of minutes at a time, it would be a reposeful spectacle. In that cases I think I could enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming to realize that she is a quite remarkably comely creature — lithe, slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once when she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes, watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized that she was beautiful.

I thought. I thought of the slow yellow autumn in the swamp and the high honey sun of spring and the eternal silence of the marshes, and the shivering light on them, and the whisper of the spartina and sweet grass in the wind and the little liquid splashes of who-knew-what secret creatures entering that strange old place of blood-warm half earth, half water. I thought of the song of all the birds that I knew, and the soft singsong of the coffee-skinned women who sold their coiled sweet-grass baskets in the market and on Meeting Street. I thought of the glittering sun on the morning harbor and the spicy, somehow oriental smells from the dark old shops, and the rioting flowers everywhere, heavy tropical and exotic. I thought of the clop of horses' feet on cobblestones and the soft, sulking, wallowing surf of Sullivan's Island in August, and the countless small vistas of grace and charm wherever the eye fell; a garden door, a peeling old wall, an entire symmetrical world caught in a windowpane. Charlestone simply could not manage to offend the eye. I thought of the candy colors of the old houses in the sunset, and the dark secret churchyards with their tumbled stones, and the puresweet bells of Saint Michael's in the Sunday morning stillness. I thought of my tottering piles of books in the study at Belleau and the nights before the fire when my father told me of stars and butterflies and voyages, and the silver music of mathematics. I thought of hot, milky sweet coffee in the mornings, and the old kitchen around me, and Aurelia's gold smile and quick hands and eyes rich with love for me.

Shadows crept along the ground like slowly seeping India ink, moved up the sides of the house, and slipped through the slats on the picket fence. Sunset tinted the sky purple and pink.

She remembered the way it looked at sunset, with the island winged cats perched on the rooftops, and the way it smelled at dawn of fresh-baked bread. In spring, wildflowers sprouted everywhere-the roofs, the cliffs, the fields. In winter, snow blanketed everything in thick white fluff.

A sunset, almost formidable in its splendor, would be lingering in the fully exposed sky. Among its imperceptibly changing amassments, one could pick out brightly stained structural details of celestial organisms, or glowing slits in dark banks, or flat, ethereal beaches that looked like mirages of desert islands. I did not know then (as I know perfectly well now) what to do with such things—how to get rid of them, how to transform them into something that can be turned over to the reader in printed characters to have him cope with the blessed shiver—and this inability enhanced my oppression.

I still remember the winter sky that evening. Whenever I worked in my sea garden and I saw a sunset like that, I'd think back to Bantham Beach. It was as if the sun had been torn open. Everything was scarlet. The clouds were flames, so wild and vibrant that blue didn't look like a color anymore. The sea and land served as a mirror. The ribbed sand was on fire. So were the stones and maroon rock pools. The pink crests of the waves. The burning hump of Burgh Island.

Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills. Already the plowing was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues. The moist hungry earth, waiting upturned for the cotton seeds, showed pinkish on the sandy tops of furrows, vermilion and scarlet and maroon where shadows lay along the sides of the trenches. The whitewashed brick plantation house seemed an island set in a wild red sea, a sea of spiraling, curving, crescent billows petrified suddenly at the moment when the pink-tipped waves were breaking into surf. For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations. The rolling foothill country of north Georgia was plowed in a million curves to keep the rich earth from washing down into the river bottoms. It was a savagely red land, blood-colored after rains, brick dust in droughts, the best cotton land in the world. It was a pleasant land of white houses, peaceful plowed fields and sluggish yellow rivers, but a land of contrasts, of brightest sun glare and densest shade. The plantation clearings and miles of cotton fields smiled up to a warm sun, placid, complacent. At their edges rose the virgin forests, dark and cool even in the hottest noons, mysterious, a little sinister, the soughing pines seeming to wait with an age-old patience, to threaten with soft sighs: "Be careful! Be careful! We had you once. We can take you back again.

DOROTHEA BENTON FRANK Bulls Island The Christmas Pearl The Land of Mango Sunsets Full of Grace Pawleys Island Shem Creek Isle of Palms Plantation Sullivans Island

As I sat in Mallory Square the next morning, waiting for Iliza, the pale yellow light of the sun reflected off the water as if to parody the jaundice of the island’s locals.

I've got you,

Here was a small corner of the Greek archipelago; sky-blue, caressing waves, islands and rocks, a flowering strip of coastline, a magical panorama in the distance, an inviting sunset — you can’t describe it in words. This is what the peoples of Europe remembered as their cradle; here unfolded the first scenes of mythology, here was their earthly paradise. Here lived beautiful people! They got up and went to sleep happy and innocent; the groves were filled with their joyous songs, their great excess of untapped energies went into love and artless joy. The sun bathed these islands and the sea in its rays, rejoicing in its beautiful children.

Station Eleven is the size of Earth’s moon and was designed to resemble a planet, but it’s a planet that can chart a course through galaxies and requires no sun. The station’s artificial sky was damaged in the war, however, so on Station Eleven’s surface it is always sunset or twilight or night. There was also damage to a number of vital systems involving Station Eleven’s ocean levels, and the only land remaining is a series of islands that once were mountaintops.

The island. As I tally my losses, it figures large there. If God takes a beloved one unto himself, we feel that loss in our heart. Yet we know well enough that nowt will quicken the dead, and so we must strive to be reconciled. But the island—its briny air, its ever changing light—these things yet exist. There, the clean and glassy breakers still beat upon the sands, the clay cliffs still flare russet and purple each sunset. All of this goes on, but I am not there to rejoice in it. It is a loss I feel on my very skin.

Living like this means you don't have a container anymore for the different days, can't hold in a little twenty-four-hour-sized box set of events that constitute a unit, something you can compartmentalize, something with a beginning and an end, something to fill with a to-do list. Living like this means that it all runs together, a cold and bright December morning with your father or a lazy evening in late August, one of those sunsets that seem to take longer than is possible, where the sun just refuses to go down, where the hour seems to elongate to the point that it doesn't seem like it can stretch any farther without detaching completely from the hour before it, like a piece of taffy, like under sea molten lava forming a new island, a piece of time detaching from the seafloor and floating up to the surface.

Look at that sky,” Livvie said. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Ain’t it marvelous?” “Yeah, it’s marvelous.” “No, chile o’ mine, you ain’t understanding what I’m telling you.” Her voice was so soft and loving, it was hard to keep my worries on my mind. “What do ya mean?” “See them stars starting to twinkle? They’s Gawd’s diamonds. You ’eah me? And the night sky turning so blue? That’s He sapphires for us. And see that streak of red across the horizon? They’s a field of rubies. Whenever you feel troubled and poor in the spirit, just go look at the sunset and all Gawd’s riches just be a-waiting for you.” “Yeah, sure, Livvie,” I said. “I ain’t lying to you, chile. I is telling you for true.

Gorge after gorge, turning, turning. Caverns of sunset, falling, falling away—just a single vast gold air breathed out by beings—they must have been marvelous beings, those gold-breathers. Down. Purple-and-green islands. Cleft and groined and gigantically pocked like something left behind after all the oceans vanished one huge night: the mountains. Their hills fold and fold again, fold away, down. Folded into the dens and rocks of the hills are ghost towns. Broken streets end in them, like a sound, nowhere. Shadow is inside. We walk (oh quietly) even so—breaking lines of force, someone’s. Houses stand in their stones. Each house an empty socket. Some streaked with red inside. Words once went on in there—no. I don’t believe that. Words never went on in there.

He disappeared inside and I leaned back on the seat to stare straight up the star-crazed sky. It seemed about 6 feet above my eyes. Or maybe 60 feet, or 600. I couldn't be sure, and it didn't matter, anyway, because by that time I was convinced I was in the cockpit of a 727 coming into LA at midnight. Jesus, I thought, I am ripped straight to the tits. Where am I? Are we going up or down? Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew I was sitting in a Jeep in the parking lot of a night club on an island off the Mexican coast - but how could I really be sure, with another part of my brain convinced that I was looking down on the huge glittering bowl of Los Angeles from the cockpit of a 727? Was that the Milky Way? Or Sunset Boulevard? Orion, or the Beverly Hills Hotel? Who gives a fuck? I thought.

Go up along the eastern side of Lake Michigan, steer northeast when the land bends away at Point Betsie, and you come before long to Sleeping Bear Point–an incredible flat-topped sand dune rising five hundred feet above the level of the lake and going north for two miles or more. It looks out over the dark water and the islands that lie just offshore, and in the late afternoon the sunlight strikes it and the golden sand turns white, with a pink overlay when the light is just so, and little cloud shadows slide along its face, blue-gray as evening sets in. Sleeping Bear looks eternal, although it is not; this lake took its present shape no more than two or three thousand years ago, and Sleeping Bear is slowly drifting off to the east as the wind shifts its grains of sand, swirling them up one side and dropping them on the other; in a few centuries it will be very different, if indeed it is there at all. Yet if this is a reminder that this part of the earth is still being remodeled it is also a hint that the spirit back of the remodeling may be worth knowing. In the way this shining dune looks west toward the storms and the sunsets there is a profound serenity, an unworried affirmation that comes from seeing beyond time and mischance. A woman I know says that to look at the Sleeping Bear late in the day is to feel the same emotion that comes when you listen to Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, and she is entirely right. The message is the same. The only trouble is that you have to compose a planet, or great music, to say it persuasively. Maybe man–some men, anyway–was made in the image of God, after all.

They had met one another, at first not very often, throughout the heady autumn of the first London air raids. Never had a season been more felt; one bought the poetic sense of it with the sense of death. Out of mists of morning charred by the smoke from ruins each day rose to a height of unmisty glitter; between the last of sunset and first note of the siren the darkening glassy tenseness of evening was drawn fine. From the moment of waking you tasted the sweet autumn not less because of an acridity on the tongue and nostrils; and as the singed dust settled and smoke diluted you felt more and more called upon to observe daytime as a pure and curious holiday from fear. All through London the ropings-off of dangerous tracts of streets made islands of exalted if stricken silence, and people crowded against the ropes to admire the sunny emptiness on the other side. The diversion of traffic out of blocked main thoroughfares into byways, the unstopping phatasmagoric streaming of lorries, buses, vans, drays, taxis past modest windows and quiet doorways set up an overpowering sense of London’s organic power – somewhere there was a source from which heavy motion boiled, surged and, not to be damned up, force itself into new channels.

He was hungry, and his first thought was to collect a dozen or two gulls’ eggs to make a meal. But embryo chicks were forming in all of them. So he rowed out to do some fishing and was more succesful. He lived on fish from day to day and sang and whiled the time away and ruled over the island. When it rained he too shelter beneath a splendid overhangig rock. At night he slept on a patch of grass and the sun never set.

Todd wrapped his arm around her. They stood together in silent awe, watching the sunset. All Christy could think of was how this was what she had always wanted, to be held in Todd's arms as well as in his heart. Just as the last golden drop of sun melted into the ocean, Christy closed her eyes and drew in a deep draught of the sea air. "Did you know," Todd said softly, "that the setting sun looks so huge from the island of Papua New Guinea that it almost looks like you're on another planet? I've seen pictures." Then, as had happened with her reflection in her cup of tea and in her disturbing dream, Christy heard those two piercing words, "Let go." She knew what she had to do. Turning to face Todd, she said, "Pictures aren't enough for you, Todd. You have to go." "I will. Someday. Lord willing," he said casually. "Don't you see, Todd? The Lord is willing. This is your 'someday.' Your opportunity to go on the mission field is now. You have to go." Their eyes locked in silent communion. "God has been telling me something, Todd. He's been telling me to let you go. I don't want to, but I need to obey Him." Todd paused. "Maybe I should tell them I can only go for the summer. That way I'll only be gone a few months. A few weeks, really. We'll be back together in the fall." Christy shook her head. "It can't be like that, Todd. You have to go for as long as God tells you to go. And as long as I've known you, God has been telling you to go. His mark is on your life, Todd. It's obvious. You need to obey Him." "Kilikina," Todd said, grasping Christy by the shoulders, "do you realize what you're saying? If I go, I may never come back." "I know." Christy's reply was barely a whisper. She reached for the bracelet on her right wrist and released the lock. Then taking Todd's hand, she placed the "Forever" bracelet in his palm and closed his fingers around it. "Todd," she whispered, forcing the words out, "the Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you His peace. And may you always love Jesus more than anything else. Even more than me." Todd crumbled to the sand like a man who had been run through with a sword. Burying his face in his hands, he wept. Christy stood on wobbly legs. What have I done? Oh, Father God, why do I have to let him go? Slowly lowering her quivering body to the sand beside Todd, Christy cried until all she could taste was the salty tears on her lips. They drove the rest of the way home in silence. A thick mantle hung over them, entwining them even in their separation. To Christy it seemed like a bad dream. Someone else had let go of Todd. Not her! He wasn't really going to go. They pulled into Christy's driveway, and Todd turned off the motor. Without saying anything, he got out of Gus and came around to Christy's side to open the door for her. She stepped down and waited while he grabbed her luggage from the backseat. They walked to the front door. Todd stopped her under the trellis of wildly fragrant white jasmine. With tears in his eyes, he said in a hoarse voice, "I'm keeping this." He lifted his hand to reveal the "Forever" bracelet looped between his fingers. "If God ever brings us together again in this world, I'm putting this back on your wrist, and that time, my Kilikina, it will stay on forever." He stared at her through blurry eyes for a long minute, and then without a hug, a kiss, or even a good-bye, Todd turned to go. He walked away and never looked back.

She had memories of a quiet pool in the woods, where she'd retreat with her books, hiding from chores that needed to be done around the house. She remembered the sound of her parents after sunset, calling her to come home. The fireflies would flicker around her as it became too dark to read, but still she'd stay, to watch the fireflies over the water and listen to the birds and the squirrels settle in for the night and the night hunters, the owls and and the cats, begin to wake. Once, she'd even glimpsed a unicorn sipping from the pond, but it could have been only a white deer and a trick of the twilight. Another afternoon, her father had come with her, avoiding his chores too. They'd read books side by side, and her mother hadn't said a word when they'd returned. A week later, her mother had been the one to join her by the pond, arriving with lunch in a basket and presenting Kiela with a new unread book, a rare treasure on the island.

Our island is two leagues long and one league wide, and if you were standing on one of the hills that rise in the middle of it, you would think that it looked like a fish. Like a dolphin lying on its side, with its tail pointing toward the sunrise, its nose pointing to the sunset, and its fins making reefs and the rocky ledges along the shore. Whether someone did stand there on the low hills in the days when the earth was new and, because of its shape, called it the Island of the Blue Dolphins, I do not know.

The calm skies that drifted above us lulled us into thinking this traversée would be smooth, but after several hours, the unsteady sea had taken its toll on me and after a light lunch and a brief swim in the open sea failed to do so, I attempted to remedy my mal de mer with rest. When I awoke, the sun had already set and the cool air and soft light of twilight helped recalibrate my disoriented thoughts. Although my seasickness had subsided, I lay starboard side facing the heavens - that were now a deep shade of purple - so as to not provoke another episode. We set to anchoring behind several large volcanic pillars just a stone’s-throw away from where the Tyrrhenian Sea kissed the east of the island. A handful of wishes scattered the skies as we approached the shores of Aci Trezza. As these stars traced their dying song across the void above, part of me felt ashamed for even entertaining the notion of wishing upon a star, but that voice was speedily silenced by words He had once shared with me in Scotland: “There is always some truth to fiction.

As of old Phoenician men, to the Tin Isles sailing Straight against the sunset and the edges of the earth, Chaunted loud above the storm and the strange sea's wailing, Legends of their people and the land that gave them birth- Sang aloud to Baal-Peor, sang unto the horned maiden, Sang how they should come again with the Brethon treasure laden, Sang of all the pride and glory of their hardy enterprise, How they found the outer islands, where the unknown stars arise; And the rowers down below, rowing hard as they could row, Toiling at the stroke and feather through the wet and weary weather, Even they forgot their burden in the measure of a song, And the merchants and the masters and the bondsmen all together, Dreaming of the wondrous islands, brought the gallant ship along; So in mighty deeps alone on the chainless breezes blown In my coracle of verses I will sing of lands unknown, Flying from the scarlet city where a Lord that knows no pity, Mocks the broken people praying round his iron throne, -Sing about the Hidden Country fresh and full of quiet green. Sailing over seas uncharted to a port that none has seen.

Look at that sky,” Livvie said. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Ain’t it marvelous?” “Yeah, it’s marvelous.” “No, chile o’ mine, you ain’t understanding what I’m telling you.” Her voice was so soft and loving, it was hard to keep my worries on my mind. “What do ya mean?” “See them stars starting to twinkle? They’s Gawd’s diamonds. You ’eah me? And the night sky turning so blue? That’s He sapphires for us. And see that streak of red across the horizon? They’s a field of rubies. Whenever you feel troubled and poor in the spirit, just go look at the sunset and all Gawd’s riches just be a-waiting for you.” “Yeah, sure, Livvie,” I said. “I ain’t lying to you, chile. I is telling you for true.” I looked at the sky and it was full of riches,

In these myriad ways, we carved out our lives in Los Angeles. Yet falling asleep was often an act of travel, taking me quickly by the hand so that I am instantly surrounded by verdant foliage, the ocean's emerald roar, the voices of Alice, Mala, our grandmother. Those most familiar and beloved of women. But there are also nightmares. Over and over I dream of a small house, a glittering lagoon, a mango tree, and a young girl. She stands before me and her large bruised eyes do not leave mine. When she unpins the sari fold at her shoulder and pulls it away from her, I see sunset-colored bruises on her delicate clavicles. When she undoes her sari blouse, I see the grenades tucked like extra breasts under her own. It is grotesque. I wake trembling, and her eyes stays with me for hours.

You’ve never seen the island as it looks now, tipping over into autumn. There are no bright colours out here to signal departure, they are simply erased, a withered tangle of greys and browns, the island shrinks and is somehow absorbed into the rain and sea and the evenings are dramatic with their desolate sunsets and banks of cloud. The darkness on an island such as this is like standing at the end of the world and all the night sounds are intensified, giving an impression of utter solitude – nature no longer frames one’s existence, but hurls it to the periphery and imposes its sovereign domination. Suddenly it’s just the sea and vast, dramatic autumn skies. Oddly enough I feel less and less inclined to leave, the less benign my surroundings grow – the security of town is more menacing.

means you don’t have a container anymore for the different days, can’t hold in a little twenty-four-hour-sized box a set of events that constitute a unit, something you can compartmentalize, something with a beginning and an end, something to fill with a to-do list. Living like this means that it all runs together, a cold and bright December morning with your father or a lazy evening in late August, one of those sunsets that seem to take longer than is possible, where the sun just refuses to go down, where the hour seems to elongate to the point that it doesn’t seem like it can stretch any farther without detaching completely from the hour before it, like a piece of taffy, like undersea molten lava forming a new island, a piece of time detaching from the seafloor and floating up to the surface. It’s not comfortable in here.

Though I was there only a short time, one thing about the Relay Station did impress me very strongly. Everywhere else I’d been, one could look “down” at the earth and watch it turning on its axis, bringing new continents into view with the passing hours. But here there was no such change. The earth kept the same face turned forever toward the station. It was true that night and day passed across the planet beneath, but with every dawn and sunset, the station was still in exactly the same place. It was poised eternally above a spot in Uganda, two hundred miles from Lake Victoria. Because of this, it was hard to believe that the station was moving at all, though actually it was traveling round the earth at over six thousand miles an hour. But because it took exactly one day to make the circuit, it would remain hanging over Africa forever—just as the other two stations hung above the opposite coasts of the Pacific.

The radiant sun draws visitors from the cold climes of Scandinavia, Britain, and Germany, and lively tavernas and discotheques entice vacationers from Asia and the Americas. People come from all over the world to marvel at the breathtaking historical depth and breadth that greets the visitor at every turn. This very mix of nationalities is just the latest of the many waves that have washed upon the Greek Isles for millennia. As they have since ancient, seafaring times, the hospitable inhabitants of the Greek Isles welcome these strangers who come for the beaches and the antiquities--and leave with the gift of the joy of living. As sunset gives way to the blanket of night, the modest lights of a thousand tiny villages twinkle and flicker as if mirroring the star-studded sky. Against the darkness, the columns and stones of ancient temples and theaters glow with a secret whiteness. Sipping a sweet and aromatic coffee, as a mandolin player strums an ancient melody and waves lap up against fishing boats moored for the night, it is easy to understand why the ancients believed these magical islands to be the birthplace of the gods.

It was evening of the following day when they entered San Diego. The expriest turned off to find them a doctor but the kid wandered on through the raw mud streets and out past the houses of hide in their rows and across the gravel strand to the beach. Loose strands of ambercolored kelp lay in a rubbery wrack at the tideline. A dead seal. Beyond the inner bay part of a reef in a thin line like something foundered there on which the sea was teething. He squatted in the sand and watched the sun on the hammered face of the water. Out there island clouds emplaned upon a salmoncolored othersea. Seafowl in silhouette. Down-shore the dull surf boomed. There was a horse standing there staring out upon the darkening waters and a young colt that cavorted and trotted off and came back. He sat watching while the sun dipped hissing in the swells. The horse stood darkly against the sky. The surf boomed in the dark and the sea’s black hide heaved in the cobbled starlight and the long pale combers loped out of the night and broke along the beach. He rose and turned toward the lights of the town. The tidepools bright as smelterpots among the dark rocks where the phosphorescent seacrabs clambered back. Passing through the salt grass he looked back. The horse had not moved. A ship’s light winked in the swells. The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men’s knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

My bedroom is separated from the main body of my house so that I have to go outside and cross some pseudo-Japanese stepping stones in order to go to sleep at night. Often I get rained on a little bit on my way to bed. It’s a benediction. A good night kiss. Romantic? Absolutely. And nothing to be ashamed of. If reality is a matter of perspective, then the romantic view of the world is as valid as any other - and a great deal more rewarding. It makes of life and unpredictable adventure rather that a problematic equation. Rain is the natural element for romanticism. A dripping fir is a hundred times more sexy than a sunburnt palm tree, and more primal and contemplative, too. A steady, wind-driven rain composed music for the psyche. It not only nurtures and renews, it consecrates and sanctifies. It whispers in secret languages about the primordial essence of things. Obviously, then, the Pacific Northwest's customary climate is perfect for a writer. It's cozy and intimate. Reducing temptation (how can you possibly play on the beach or work in the yard?), it turns a person inward, connecting them with what Jung called "the bottom below the bottom," those areas of the deep unconscious into which every serious writer must spelunk. Directly above my writing desk there is a skylight. This is the window, rain-drummed and bough-brushed, through which my Muse arrives, bringing with her the rhythms and cadences of cloud and water, not to mention the latest catalog from Victoria's Secret and the twenty-three auxiliary verbs. Oddly enough, not every local author shares my proclivity for precipitation. Unaware of the poetry they're missing, many malign the mist as malevolently as they non-literary heliotropes do. They wring their damp mitts and fret about rot, cursing the prolonged spillage, claiming they're too dejected to write, that their feet itch (athlete's foot), the roof leaks, they can't stop coughing, and they feel as if they're slowly being digested by an oyster. Yet the next sunny day, though it may be weeks away, will trot out such a mountainous array of pagodas, vanilla sundaes, hero chins and god fingers; such a sunset palette of Jell-O, carrot oil, Vegas strip, and Kool-Aid; such a sea-vista display of broad waters, firred islands, whale spouts, and boat sails thicker than triangles in a geometry book, that any and all memories of dankness will fizz and implode in a blaze of bedazzled amnesia. "Paradise!" you'll hear them proclaim as they call United Van Lines to cancel their move to Arizona.

I suppose there’s no better place to be than an island in southern Florida. Sand, sunsets . . . in fact, I was telling Louise earlier just how blessed we all were to be here. To have one another. We might not be blood, but we’re kin, just the same.” Charity gave him an appreciative smile. With great effort, Daisy looked up slowly and met his eyes. He winked and pointed a crooked finger at her. “Family, girlie, is the people who stick by you. Thick or thin. And real family, well, nothing can keep them from you. Not even a hurricane.” He tipped his fishing hat and started back toward the house, then

Banalata Sen Jibananda Das. Translated from the original Bengali by Amitabha Mukerjee A thousand years I have walked these paths, From the harbour at Malacca in the dark of night To the straits of Ceylon at glimmer of dawn. Much have I travelled - The grey world of Ashoka-Bimbisara, Further yet, The dark city of Vidharbha; Around me life foams its stormy breath. Weary of soul, I found a moment's respite in her presence - She: Banalata Sen of Natore. Her hair the ancient darkness of Vidisha, Face a sculpture from Sravasthi. A sailor in distant oceans, rudderless, lost, When hoves into view Island of grass through fronds of cinnamon, A green relief So she felt to me. In the darkness she spoke - "All these years, where had you been?" Her eyebrows arched like the soaring wings of a bird - She: Banalata Sen of Natore. With the sound of dewdrops, Comes evening. The sunset fringe of gold on the eagle's wing Melts into the night And the glow of fireflies. Birds return to nest - The shop of life Shuttered for the day. Left behind in the darkness Face to face - Only she: Banalata Sen of Natore. Original translation 11/90

You have two hands, Mr Felix. I understand that's all a lonely single man needs." She clamped her lips together and forced herself to remain calm until the door closed behind her. She blinked in the late afternoon sunlight, feeling like she'd been inside a surreal film and the real world was definitely a relief. Sunset tinted the path as she followed the yellow brick road away from the rock star the newspapers called the Wizard of Aus.

The sun rises on Newfoundland, sets on British Columbia, island to island. Chilly Atlantic mornings and warm Pacific sunsets. An arc that traces a path from the dawn of an empire to its twilight.

Ritual characterizes every aspect of life here, and even mundane, daily activities take on an ageless quality. The daily rhythm begins at dawn, as the fishermen launch boats from countless harbors, an event that has taken place for centuries. The women go to market, exchanging greetings and comments. Ritual rules the care and time taken with every detail of the midday meal, from the hearty seafood appetizers to the strong, syrupy coffee that marks the end of the feast. The day winds down with the evening stroll, a tradition thoroughly ingrained in the culture of the Greek Isles. In villages and towns throughout the islands, sunset brings cooler air and draws people from their homes and the beaches for an enjoyable evening walk through town squares, portside promenades, and narrow streets. Ancient crafts still flourish in the artisans’ studios and in tidy homes of countless mountain villages and ports. Embroidery--traditionally the province of Greek women--is created by hand to adorn the regional costumes worn during festivals. Artists craft delicate silver utensils, engraved gems, blown glass, and gold jewelry. Potters create ceramic pieces featuring some of the same decorative patterns and mythological subjects that captured their ancestors’ imagination. Weddings, festivals, saints’ days. And other celebrations with family and friends provide a backdrop for grave and energetic Greek dancing. For centuries--probably ever since people have lived on the islands--Greek islanders have seized every opportunity to play music, sing, and dance. Dancing in Greece is always a group activity, a way to create and reinforce bonds among families, friends, and communities, and island men have been dancing circle dances like the Kalamatianos and the Tsamikos since antiquity. Musicians accompany revelers on stringed instruments like the bouzouki--the modern equivalent of the lyre. While traditional attire is reserved mainly for festive occasions, on some islands people still sport these garments daily. On Lefkada and Crete, it is not unusual to find men wearing vraka, or baggy trousers, and vests, along with the high boots known as stivania. Women wear long, dark, pleated skirts woven on a traditional loom, and long silk scarves or kerchiefs adorn their heads. All the garments are ornamented by hand with rich brocades and elaborate embroidery. All over the Greek Isles, Orthodox priests dress in long black robes, their shadowy figures contrasting with the bright whites, blues, and greens of Greek village architecture.

On the summit of a desolate rock on Devil’s Island, far from the few palm trees on the shore, a small hut of four cubic yards was built for Dreyfus; night and day an inspector stood guard at the door, with strict orders not to address a word to him. In the daytime the prisoner was permitted to exercise until sunset in a small rectangular space of about two hundred yards, near his hut.

Our island is two leagues long and one league wide, and if you were standing on one of the hills that rise in the middle of it, you would think that it looked like a fish. Like a dolphin lying on its side, with its tail pointing toward the sunrise, its nose pointing to the sunset, and its fins making reefs and the rocky ledges along the shore. Whether someone did stand there on the low hills in the days when the earth was new and, because of its shape, called it the Island of the Blue Dolphins,

I own an island, Constance—a private island in the Florida Keys. It’s west of No Name Key and northeast of Key West. It’s not a big island, but it’s a jewel. It is called Halcyon. I have a house there; a breezy mansion furnished with books and instruments and paintings; it offers both sunrise and sunset views; and it has been stocked with all the rare wines, champagnes, and delicacies you could ever wish for. I’ve been preparing this idyll over the years with painstaking, excessive care. It was to be a bastion; my last and final retreat from the world. But—as I was recovering in that hut in Ginostra—I realized that such a place, no matter how ideal, would be unbearably lonely without another person—the one, the perfect person—with whom to share it.” He paused. “Need I name that person?

Why is the ocean blue? Is it really because it reflects the sky?” His face lit up. “Partly, yes. At least, the surface of the water reflects the sky. So that’s why it appears blue on a clear day—or pinkish during a sunset, like it is now. But deeper down, the water in a sense is creating its blue color. That’s because sunlight contains the entire spectrum of colors, and when it shines into the ocean, the colors with the longest wavelengths are absorbed first. The color blue has one of the shortest wavelengths, so it’s still visible deeper down…” Matt continued to list in detail the other variables that affected the ocean’s color. When he finished, he asked, “Did that explanation make sense?

Derek Walcott wrote in his 1992 Nobel Lecture about the enthusiasm of the tourist: What is hidden cannot be loved. The traveller cannot love, since love is stasis and travel is motion. If he returns to what he loved in a landscape and stays there, he is no longer a traveller but in stasis and concentration, the lover of that particular part of earth, a native. So many people say they ‘love the Caribbean’, meaning that someday they plan to return for a visit but could never live there, the usual benign insult of the traveller, the tourist. These travellers, at their kindest, were devoted to the same patronage, the islands passing in profile, their vegetal luxury, their backwardness and poverty . . . What is the earthly paradise for our visitors? Two weeks without rain and a mahogany tan, and, at sunset, local troubadours in straw hats and floral shirts beating ‘Yellow Bird’ and ‘Banana Boat Song’ to death. There is a territory wider than this – wider than the limits made by the map of an island – which is the illimitable sea and what it remembers. All of the Antilles, every island, is an effort of memory; every mind, every racial biography culminating in amnesia and fog. Pieces of sunlight through the fog and sudden rainbows, arcs-en-ciel.24

She'd always lived by the motto that if she cared about the person she was meeting, she had to be punctual to show them that their time was important to her. And the gathering she was attending was going to be full of people she appreciated and cared about. So she was going to be on time.

Bess was pretty sure she’d have a breakdown later that night in the safety of her bed, when other thoughts gave way to the lack of her husband beside her. But every moment she could continue to live and push forward in life was positive for Bess, and she needed that. She was done with wasting all of her days and nights mourning what could have been. What should have been.

My heart rate is slowing, because even just being this close to her is calming. Cat is a trip to Costa Rica. She’s the break from working full time. She is our small island at sunset on my family’s cove. She’s wholesome and good.

My eyes bloom as I meet a silk as smooth as water. It shines like a pool of opals. The connection is tender and romantic, like how the feeling of summer swelled up within Romeo when he first laid eyes on Juliet. She was beautiful, as fair as their beloved Verona. And here, this dress reminds me of all the loveliness of Luna Island. It's hand dyed soft colors--- blush and blue, lilac and lemon--- like a sunset sky above island waters. A blue sash cinches the waist, and the bow in the back fans out into multiple ribbons, each one a color featured on the dress. Labyrinthine embroidery coils into rose-like shapes, and ruffled sleeves remind me of cream puff shells.

Maybe the two different worlds we lived in weren't so different. We saw the same sunset.

We were standing in the yard a month ago. One of the last leaves came off the maple. So I picked it up and made him look very closely and carefully at it. I made him see it. Then I asked him what it was worth, without cracking a smile. I could almost see the light bulb going on in the air over his head, like cartoons. Then, bless you, I fed him that speech you made a lifetime ago on Sanibel Island. If there was one sunset every twenty years, how would people react to them? If there were ten seashells in all the world, what would they be worth? If people could make love just once a year, how carefully would they pick their mates?

She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean. The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.

Arosteguy poured more sake for both of them. "I love warm sake. How brilliant to create a drink at body temperature." He shook his head. "The Japanese. Feared by the West for so long, and now fading into their beloved sunrise. Or sunset. First militarily, then economically, and now, only gastronomically. And I need to become Japanese at a time when everyone wants to become Chinese. The Chinese call the Japanese 'the little people,' I've been told. That could have to do with the miniaturization of island species. I must do a study.

It is always sunrise somewhere,” he wrote in a journal. “The dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.

The cool, pearly sheen of dawn had warmed in the East to a blaze of vivid rose that deepened along the horizon's edge to a bar of living, glowing scarlet, and bathed the still sea and the dreaming islands in an uncanny, sunset radiance.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

Sanibel Island is an alluring paradox. A primordial landscape, buzzing with tourists. A tropical hideaway where storybook sunsets heal souls, and violent hurricanes destroy property. A cherished corner of Old Florida, in the midst of a modernizing metamorphosis. Where unfettered wildness thrives, even as ecological challenges mount. A dream place where I can explore the boundaries between coastal textures, the rhythm of nature, and the stuff of humankind; and create art that is honest and authentic.

The grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once. A shower is forever falling, vapor is forever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.

Maes Howe belongs to a tradition of tombs known as passage graves, which probably originated in Brittany. It was built in the later Neolithic, shortly after 3000 BC, and consists of a long entrance passage that leads into a central hall with small side cells for burials. In common with the other great passage grave from these islands, Newgrange, in Ireland, the long entrance passage faces south-west, precisely towards the midwinter sunset. On that day, light shines down the 12-metre (40 ft)-long passageway and illuminates the central chamber.

You’re a beautiful island despite the waves of lovers coming and leaving, strong enough to come to shore but unwilling to stay. Eventually, you will be discovered by a king who is traveling to find something he has never known before. He will stay because this island will offer a home to him. Fruitful love will be at his reach, the most beautiful sunsets will meet his eyes, and you will be bathed by the glory of the sun. Life’s a beach, and loving you will be much more than life has to offer him.

Then I asked him what it was worth, without cracking a smile. I could almost see the light bulb going on in the air over his head, like cartoons. Then, bless you, I fed him that speech you made a lifetime ago on Sanibel Island. If there was one sunset every twenty years, how would people react to them? If there were ten seashells in all the world, what would they be worth? If people could make love just once a year, how carefully would they pick their mates? So now John thinks I am very nice in spite of being quite mad.

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My hands trembled slightly as I tore at the soil. In the dark, I worked feverishly but silently. It was way past sunset when he arrived late from the hospital. Now Alfi took my place and stood at the side of the tree, a quiet accomplice like I had been on the first night I came to the island with him. ... I finished the job and brushed the soil off my hands.

Bess had no idea what to say to this man who suddenly felt like a stranger. Other than that she hated the way he'd said her name. What had once felt like an adorable term of endearment—Jon was the only one to ever call her Bessie—now made her feel like an old cow.

Of an August day in Paris the choice hour is from six to seven in the evening. The choice promenade is the Seine between the Pont Alexandre III and the Pont de l'Archevêché. If one walks down the quays of the Rive Gauche toward Notre-Dame first, and then turns back on the Rive Droite, he has the full glory of the setting sun before him and reaches the Place de la Concorde just in time to get a glimpse up the Champs Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe as the last light of day is disappearing. I am not yet old enough to have taken this walk a thousand times, but when I have I am sure that it will present the same fascination, the same stirring of soul, the same exaltation that it does to-day. Choose, if you will, your August sunset at the seashore or in the mountains. There you have nature unspoiled, you say. But is there not a revelation of God through animate as well as inanimate creation? If we can have the sun going down on both at the same time, why not? Notre-Dame may be surpassed by other churches, even in France. But Notre-Dame, in its setting on the island that Is the heart and center of this city, historically and architecturally that high water mark of human endeavor, cannot be surpassed. Standing on the bridge between the Morgue and the Ile St-Louis, and looking towards the setting sun, one sees the most perfect blending of the creation of God and the creation of the creatures of God that the world affords. And it is not because I have not seen the sunset from the Acropolis, from the Janiculum, from the Golden Horn, and from the steps of El Akbar, that I make this statement. Athens, Rome, Constantinople, Cairo- these have been, but Paris is.

Sober Deb regretted that night with a passion, and since then, she'd stopped drinking. Alcohol and anger didn't mix well, and there weren't many days when Deb wasn't angry.

maybe if she wasn't working so hard at being angry with Rich, she could find the time and energy to love and raise her daughter for the few months she had left.

You ever lived on an island?” Julie shook her head. “No, ma’am.” “Well, get used to a new way of life, hon. Island time is very different than regular time. We close up shop early and go home to enjoy the sounds of the marsh and the moonlit views of the ocean. We ain’t about working on the island.

A relentless storm rages within me, a maelstrom born out of this irritating affliction called Akathisia. This isn't just restlessness; it's akin to being trapped in a never-ending marathon with invisible shackles chaining every muscle, nerve, and inch of my being. I see the world around me as vibrant, lively, and pulsating with life, yet I'm confined to this lonely island of agony, isolated and misunderstood. Every moment is a battle against an invisible enemy that holds my peace hostage. I clench my fists, grit my teeth, and ride out the waves of torment. But the relentless onslaught of Akathisia never ceases. An unseen demon has sunk its claws into my soul, forcing me to endure this relentless turmoil. I look into the mirror and see a stranger staring back, a hollow shell writhing in pain, enslaved by an unseen tormentor. The cruel irony is that the world continues to spin, oblivious to the infernal landscape that has become my existence. From sunrise to sunset, the silent scream of Akathisia echoes within me, a chilling reminder of the hell on earth I am condemned to.

So the stranger fared with them, and they all fared on, and before sunset they came to the place where the King was. It was a place of druidcraft, of wise men and teachers; later, men were to call it Oxford.

He saw that the sun was riding low in the sky. It would be sunset soon. He had planned to be at the Mallory docks, Key West’s sunset mecca, for the island’s signature moment, but he was juiced by the idea that he might know where Finbar McShane was. There would be another sunset tomorrow. If he was still here to see it. The parking lane was one-way. It took him on a swing under the causeway and then out at the entrance to another marina. He saw boat ramps and, beyond them, the houseboats grouped together on the water like a floating village. Most of them had smaller runabouts with outboards attached to back-door docks and decks. The houseboats were painted in pastels, two-story structures sitting on barges and lashed together to create a community. From Bosch’s angle of view he counted eight houses extending out into Garrison Bight. The second

Here, before the swaying grasses in that moment magnificent, the light catches the mop-headed thatch of sable palms on the spiny little islands sprinkled about. Wide creeks mirror the sun in shimmering rivulets rippling with the tide. In the languid afternoon the light ebbs from the stark horizon and washes back, altering shadows in shades of blue over the seascape and marsh." From Chapter 5

The Lee Shore" Wheel gull spin and glide ... you've got no place to hide 'Cause you don't need one All along the lee shore shells lie scattered in the sand Winking up like shining eyes at me, from the sea Here is one like sunrise older than you know It's still lying there where some careless wave Forgot it long ago When I awoke this morning Dove beneath my floating home Down below her graceful side In the turning tide To watch the sea fish roam And there I heard a story From the sailors of the Sandra Marie There's another island a day's run away from here It's empty and free From here to Venezuela nothing more to see Than a hundred thousand islands Flung like jewels upon the sea For you and me Sunset smells of dinner Women are calling at me to end my tales But perhaps I'll see you the next quiet place I furl my sails 4 Way Street (1971)

And of course walking through the quaint, sun-drenched town, the historic buildings—by law none were allowed to be more than two stories tall, because anything higher might impede a neighbor’s view of the sunset—each painted a different shade of pink or blue or yellow, stopping for ice cream or groceries at the locally owned shops.

And, there are only two possible conclusions: tragic failure, or riding off into the sunset together. But no matter how the journey ends, you know from the moment that you decide to crush on someone that the process won’t be entirely sweet nor bitter; the choice to like someone is yours, and the decision to cross the mountains and rivers is yours too.

Above the dunes of Pawleys Island a choir of sea oats bent westward, tickling the sunset and waving g'night.

You go mad about sunsets because sunsets remind you of what’s always been going on, whether you knew it or not, inside your skull and outside space and time.

In the middle of the summer scorching heat Let the clouds above gather around me Cover me in the dark cool shade Leave me sitting on a bench looking out Far away at St Catherine’s breakwater Turquoise blue waters flat calm under the horizon Above in the distance shimmers the coastline of France Between the sky and the ocean Here I am longing to be there The sunsets at St Ouens Bay are pretty Many times of the year People horse riding, windsurfing And taking dogs for a walk Rays of sunshine burst through the clouds The dolphins are playing as I watch And the seagulls glide high up in the sky Here am I long to be there The boathouse is still the same Even when the tide has gone out A time for an afternoon glass of wine Elegant woman wearing shades Hiding her beautiful eyes from the world Her sparkling earrings droop freely Hanging in the soft spring air Here am I long to be there The island calls me and beckons me to come The winter was so slow painful and dark Now spring has arrived there is magic in the air My heart and souls feels lighter now Seeing yellow daffodils swaying in the park There is new energy a new life to embrace The island of Jersey calls me through the air I am looking forward to being there In all my travels and all that I have seen It is the only place I have come to call home

on one of the hills that rise in the middle of it, you would think that it looked like a fish. Like a dolphin lying on its side, with its tail pointing toward the sunrise, its nose pointing to the sunset, and its fins making reefs and the rocky ledges along the shore. Whether someone did stand there on the low hills in the days when the earth was new and, because of its shape, called it the Island of the Blue Dolphins, I