To the Editor:

I have now stood at the public landing on two consecutive evenings among a crowd of my neighbors, all of us admiring a sunset manufactured by a disaster happening to other people, and I would like the record to show that at least one of us felt funny about it.

I am not writing to scold. I stayed both nights. The second night I brought my wife, which I suppose makes me an organizer. The sky was the color of the inside of a kiln and the lake looked like poured metal and it was, I will say it plainly, beautiful, and I distrusted every minute of it.

All I ask is that we not get used to it. A sunset like that should feel like borrowing a stranger’s coat at a funeral — you may wear it, it may even fit, but you should be hoping the whole time to give it back.

When the wind turns and our skies go back to ordinary, I intend to stand at the landing anyway, and watch an unremarkable yellow sun go down completely unassisted, and I invite the same crowd to join me. Same time. Bring the wife.

J. Sandvik
Misquah