Pescadero at sunset.

Some nights there is a tunnel you can only feel. The chill moves through you bitterly, but that and nothing worse could drive you back to softly-lit, comfy corners.

Along with that chill there is a glow. Orange ombre through the tall line of branches to the West. The sky morphs with each passing minute into a new and wonderful creature. The color seeps deeper into the East as a fresh splash of watercolor paints does against its porous lover. Colors once crisp with the afternoon gray are now melted and voluptuous.

My blonde imp laughs near the flutter and squawk of Poppy laying a light brown egg in her nesting box. The other chickens scratch up worms and spiders and break grass spades from their roots. My chest rises and falls with a gentle echo burying its face into my warmth. Hens cluck, roosters crow, and Olive the dog runs, teeth grinning against that chill.

The farm is calming, settling down for the night.