The fleabane points its dishes toward every point of the compass for maximum reception. Nectar above, poison in the leaves below: I am the light says the sun, neglecting to mention the deadly solar wind. Without a magnetic field, there’d be no life to recapitulate the slow turning & circling of celestial bodies.
In the late afternoon, male gnats coalasce into dense clouds, hovering until sunset above some bush or patch of grass that females of the same species might find attractive. Obscure even to each other, able to vanish in the light of noon, they magnify their microgravities into a dark conflagration of need.
As for me, I’ve discovered this before: turning my back to the sunset — that photographic cliché — does no good whatsoever. I have too much at stake: where would any of us be without our mental habits? What new ground would support us? Five hundred years after Copernicus, accurate knowledge about the rotation of the earth does nothing to prevent this fiery idol of ours from continuing to travel an alabaster sky and descending each evening into the earth.