I waited patiently for darkness to fall, hoping to catch the super moon on the first night after its incredible luminescence. Instead, the sun became the dominant prelude, the first act over-powering the waiting symphony of the moon shining proudly at the closest point of its orbit to the Earth. The backdrop of the Rocky Mountains and the Front Range, silhouetted in hues of grey and midnight blue, their layers of depth raising one after the other, captured the glorious sunrays (crepuscular rays, we often called them “God’s holes”). The clouds opened up for the intensity of the sun before making cover for it. The sun radiated its strength, alternatively showing itself, then hiding, then masterfully, emphatically proclaiming its dominance of the evening sky. The interplay of clouds, white fluffy strands overhead, washed-out grey covering the northern sky, and pale blue sky fading to nothing in the south, was a conductor’s delight. The sunrays swept the entire horizon like the closing credits of a romantic movie, the sounds of cymbals and French horns playing in my mind. Darkness finally fell, the raising moon in the East penetrating through the thick branches of the pine tree outside my window. I rose twice during the night to follow its path, knowing the sun would soon enough obscure this passing for another month. The morning moon reflected its dimming roundness just above Dakota Ridge, competing with two or three feathery clouds floating non-chalantly above. And then another day: parasailing near Dakota Ridge/Wonderland Lake, Boulder, CO.