This morning the predawn horizon glowed the color of polished pearl. Mt. Hood, almost as Platonic a mountain as Mt. Fuji, was a dimensionless lavender presence in the east. The moon hung over Hood’s shoulder, just a fingernail paring away from being new, her silver rim gleaming like the eyes of angels while her dark quarters punched a hole in the light seeping into the sky. Venus in her turn coasted on the moon’s shoulder, harbinger of day, forecaster of the coming of the sun.