I’ve lived 15 years in Perth, Western Australia, with its long stretches of seaside aptly named Sunset Coast. Perth is home to consistently striking sunsets, having the Indian Ocean for a stage and low hills along the Darling Scarp for box seats, ably demonstrated by Gary Beilby. I’ve never gotten sick of this time of day. It’s hard to, when every single sunset brings its own brand of Spectacular.
High in the mountains of New Mexico, sunsets are a different kind of pleasure. Jagged ridges crumple the line of the horizon without inhibiting the vastness of the surrounding land. Cowboys in big trucks fly down the highways into the last of the light. The blood slows. Night falls. The ghost of Billy roams.