Sunset, Moonrise

Anyone who has read Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides, or even just seen the movie, will remember the scene where Lila Wingo first shows her children the simultaneous sunset and moonrise over the marshes. Conroy is sometimes guilty of overwriting, but here I think his language is as breathtaking as the natural beauty he captures.

"The new gold of moon astonishing and ascendent, the depleted gold of sunset extinguishing itself in the long westward slide, it was the old dance of days in the Carolina marshes, the breathtaking death of days before the eyes of children, until the sun vanished, its final signature a ribbon of bullion strung across the tops of water oaks. The moon then rose quickly, rose like a bird from the water, from the trees, from the islands, and climbed straight up—gold, then yellow, then pale yellow, pale silver, silver-bright, then something miraculous, immaculate, and beyond silver, a color native only to southern nights."

The first sentence balances parallel phrases in imitation of the sun and moon, then moves through layers of description that mirror the sun's descent. In the second sentence, the cadence of "from" phrases and gradations of color lift us up with the moonrise. Every time I read this I feel I have witnessed two miracles: one of nature, the other of art.