It is the Beaufort Scale of my commute. It is the Newark Sugar Factory.
Every evening, as soon as I get out of the car park death trap at work, I look West towards the sun set, and the great factory that has dominated this town with its size and smell since way before I arrived here. Its tall chimneys belch smoke into the air, and it is from these that I can gauge the strength and direction of the wind, like a bladderwrack toting bumpkin from an ancient episode of "Countryfile".
But only for six months of the year. The sugar beat only rolls in on teetering wagons for the colder months, and then when it is all out of the ground, the factory falls silent. The annual campaign, they call it. The smoke is stilled, and I have nothing by which to predict in what state I will get home.
Today was such a day.
Luckily, skies were clear, winds were light, and a moon fit and rested after swallowing the sun guided me home with Venus lower to the horizon. The twilight was beautiful, and needed to be preserved in memory both synaptic, and electronic.
|The Moon and Venus|
|Jupiter the star atop the tree|
|Smack in the middle, a nesting collared dove I think|
|Magnolia's open more and more each day|