Twice a year the eastbound morning commute turns nasty...

Just look at that golden light from the sun pouring over the horizon, as she slowly wakes up. See it peeking through thin clouds, as she picks her colors from a palette of oranges, pinks and yellows.

Playfully she uses the reflection in a still pond to send you more of her morning warmth, welcome as it is because the temperature dipped below freezing during the night she just gently shoo'ed away.


The remaining whisps of mist take on the white-and-faintly-yellow hue of platina, floating a few feet above frosted grasslands. Not quite silver, not quite gold. The thin clouds slowly make their retreat, the tiny water droplets that make them up evaporating into the morning air.

The hues subtly shift, reds turn orange, oranges turn yellow, yellows turn blond, and then white. The big fusion reactor that powers everything living, nearly 150 million km away yet powerful enough to warm us, rises slowly higher above our horizon. Higher and higher she climbs...

Finally she's high enough over the horizon so that I can use my car sun visor!

Seriously. Twice a year my morning commute seems to drive me nearly straight into the sun. Just peering over the horizon right at the time I sit in my car, SMACK in my field of view, yet too low to be able to use the car sun visor.

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