I'm drinking Orchidée Noire tea. Vanilla black by Mariage Frères. Too much of it, actually.
I will regret this later.
Up on the mountain, I take periodic breaks from reading (somewhat reluctantly) my reviewers' suggestions to step outside. The peaks across the valley are ribbons in the shades of blue, perfectly ironed, thanks to the overexposed sky. Then, as the Sun begins its descent, the landscape slowly acquires some dimension in lilac and baby-girl pink.
Modestly colored North American hummingbirds buzz past my face--no, not like the original "little helicopters," as people seem to call them--more like missiles. Larger birds sing, and a dog barks in the distance. The latter makes me realize that I haven't heard the howling of the wolves that inhabit this mountain in quite some time.
As the sky darkens, the water acquires an unnatural tint, though nowhere near the turquoise on the nights of red.
Still no Moon.
