As they crossed the gravel, a thrush—nature’s flautist—announced the gloaming. Another thirty minutes and darkness would fall, but right now the house and the cottage were suspended between day and night, caught in that moment when nothing was defined and everything seemed possible. Galen had written several poems about the gloaming, and she often found herself out in the woods with her camera at this time. The French called it the blue hour; photographers called it the golden hour; Hannah called it the in-between hour. It spoke of endings and beginnings. And today, it spoke of promise for a
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Another small, but important, moment set during the gloaming.
