The light has changed again. Morning comes slower, and when it does, the sun rises through a thinner blue that feels almost metallic. I walked to work under that kind of sky today—sharp, watchful, without a trace of warmth. The cottonwoods along the river are only beginning to show color, but the aspen high above town have already gone gold. From the Animas Overlook, it looks like the hills are holding a secret they aren’t ready to share.
Inside the gallery, I turned on the lights and waited for them to steady. The hum was soft, familiar, a sound that marks the start of every day. Outside, a delivery truck idled at the curb; the driver leaned on the wheel, phone pressed to his ear, waiting for someone to answer. Everywhere I looked, something was waiting—people, traffic, the weather itself.
On the radio, the conversation was about Washington again: negotiations, deadlines, the word “shutdown” used as if it were just another forecast. I changed the station, but every frequency carried the same tone—a weary suspense. It reminded me of standing in the UK years ago, waiting for a train already listed as delayed, watching the schedule flicker from minute to minute until the numbers became meaningless.
In the afternoon, clouds began stacking over the La Plata Mountains, high and motionless, lit from below. I thought of how storms always seem to arrive a day later than predicted here, as though they too pause before crossing the ridge.
By dusk, the light returned to that metallic hue, and I stood by the front window as the last cars moved down Main. The air was utterly still. It’s a strange kind of calm, the kind that makes you aware of how fragile equilibrium can be. We tell ourselves the sky is empty, but most days, it’s simply waiting.