Because of my location on this spinning planet of ours,
tilted on its axis at that famous 23.4 degrees, I’m familiar with darkness.
Not as familiar, say, with folks above either the Arctic or
Antarctic circles, but familiar enough that when I get on the bus at 5:30 am
and get off it at 6:30 pm, the sun may as well not exist.
This morning, a slim crescent moon shone through the fog as
I walked in the chilly air from the bus to my cubicle – a brisk walk of ten
minutes through, this morning, single-digit temperatures. Coming to work in the
morning is an adventure of dragon breath, treading lightly on iced asphalt, and
gazing in wonder at the tangle of fire suppression system supply pipes that
greet me at the door where I’m greeted with blessed heat and the distinct odor
of soggy cinder blocks.
The sun, on the solstice, rises approximately an hour after
I arrive.
When I leave at night, I see the wan sun setting in the
west, but for most of my journey to the bus it’s obscured by one of the largest
buildings in Idaho, dripping with snow and ice the sun has managed to melt off
its roof. I board the bus in semidarkness, then emerge under the stars as I
drive the rest of the way home at 6:30.
Oh, when those days begin to get longer. Soo I’ll enjoy the
red sunrises when I get to work shortly before 7 am. I’ll get to see the
lenticular clouds that form over the Big Southern Butte, or imagine that the
sunrise behind the buttes to the east is fire from newly-erupting volcanoes and
I’ll get to go home – via Twin Falls, most likely, or maybe Mud Lake if the
Menan Buttes don’t get into the act too.
I won’t have to worry about Vitamin D supplements.
So I look forward to the solstice, cold and dark that it is.
It means spring is coming to the rescue.
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