Twilight has always been my favourite part of the day. I'm standing on my balcony, looking out over the dark grey strip of sea forming the horizon line. A smoky redness rises from the grey and moves through a spectrum of gradual hue changes, orange, imperceptible yellow and green, into the palest blue and stretching up through indigo to a zenith of violet. This is Eliot's violet hour, and the very essence of Stephenie Meyer's evocative and inspiring love story.
Appropriately, two tiny bats have left their roost under my eaves, their crazy but not haphazard flight silhouetted against the fading glow. A small flock of night herons passes overhead, on their way down to the rocks to take over where the egrets left off at sunset. My cat lopes across the neighbour's roof, adventure bound.
Venus and Jupiter are resplendent in the west as the full moon rises from behind the mountains.
The magic of twilight gives way to mysterious night.
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