Dusk equalizes the value of all days. Whether it was a harsh sunny one, grey, or thrilling with puffy clouds swirling across the skies, when twilight falls, these days become softly, dreamily equal. Gloam smooths contrast, lines and colours, so that our eyes are freed from their distraction to notice the glow that emanates from each object. It’s easy to think that this isn’t reflected light, but an internal illumination through a translucent skin of electrons and subatomic matter. During this hour, we see only enough for our minds to understand and are free to fill in the rest of the mystery. Our sphere of visual attention shrinks, but our other senses expand outwards until we can hear the flap of wings, the scurry of little feet, the shiver of leaves, the smells of dampness or wood smoke or someone’s dinner, the taste of the seasonal change, the feel of the sudden chilling drop in temperature raising the hairs on our bodies. It is the time my humanness feels the most fluid. It’s also the time that my vision seems clearest. Early this year I developed a large floater in my right eye on a flight; while annoying, my other eye has compensated. However, after flying to the Yukon a few weeks ago, I got another large floater in the centre of my left visual field. (I’ve been to the optometrist this year - things are ok.) The recent one has made a bigger impact. The result is that my visual focus is smudged, as if I’ve got sleep gunk I need to rub away, or as if I’m looking through glasses at something that is obscured by rain on the lens. It’s very noticeable until dusk, when the world becomes so muted that the blur in my eyesight blends and becomes one with the poetry of the twilight. . . Taken on the traditional territories of the Puyallup Tribe.