The sun was setting as I drove home this evening. I watched it slowly sinking, a perfect circle of molten magma in a soft pale peach sky. As I drove straight towards it, the fiery disk touched the top of the dark distant hills, and for a moment time stopped, and the edge of the sun and the line of the hills seemed to join together, one blurring with the other. But then the sun dipped further, and the harsh dark stroke of the horizon cut across it, accentuating the brightness against the pale spring sky. Like butter on a hot knife the red-gold orb slid quickly downwards, as if eager to be gone, until the merest crescent of brilliance remained. Then in an instant the last gleaming sliver was also gone, and the day was done. The empty peach sky faded and then gradually darkened to burnt mandarin. By the time I reached home, the sky was deep indigo, and night reigned supreme.