I've been paying attention to sunset lately, in a sort of mundane way. We can't sail in the dark, obviously (or maybe it's not obvious -- some coaches tape flashlights to the masts as a way of dealing with fall's increasing darkness). And we can't start practice until class is over, so as the season goes on we have a shorter and shorter window to work with. Over my desk I have calendar showing the sunset times for the next month, and I look at it often when I'm thinking about what we'll do at practice. Next Tuesday it will come 13 minutes earlier than today. The week after that, another 12 minutes. On the water, I watch the sun dropping toward Pole Island, and the light getting yellower, then flatter, then blue-shadowy. I look at my watch, because at this time of year I don't know what time it really is based on the light. Driving home I look at the sky and at the clock. About 10 minutes after official sunset there was still light in the sky, but the treeline was black, a silhouette against a yellow sky. I can't figure out how the sky goes from yellow-red to blue without passing through green anywhere, but it does, and away from the place where the sun is brightest it is red-orange, changing to a darker blue-purple without seeming to go through yellow. Tonight the moon was up, a sliver, hanging near the horizon and glowing silver. We'll have a full moon next Friday, October 6th, which I know from my sunset calendar and from trying to plan a moonlit practice for the team. I suppose there are people whose job gives them reason to keep track of the moon, just like I'm keeping track of sunset these days, but the moon always takes me by surprise. I never know where in the sky to look for it, or how big it will be, and it seems that just when I'm getting used to it being full it's getting small again.