The scarlet-crimson light lasts longer aloft than when seen from the ground. Impossibly long, as it drags out, each minute changing shade imperceptibly but inexorably. Each shade darker and more primally beautiful than the last. The serrated silhuettes of Tetons cascading past rocky past sierra. The quilted cover of snow topped peaks and plains from the day replaced by sleeping hulks. Blooms of light passing below like some strange luminescent diaspora floating in the murky deep. Blossoming flowers too faded to discern in detail but present nonetheless. Occasional clouds stretch on the horizon like blackened birds, dispairingly dark like some transplant from a crushingly deep abyss. Scarlet smears to crimson then smudges into more ordinary hues and then again to a darkness that seems to mirror but not quite imitate the one below. The darkness a bit more pale. The luminescence less organized. And the swolen circle of light which must be the reflection of the observer – ever peering with one glowing eye straining to see through the dimness something. Though I know not what, something. Some thing I may find out there.