Magenta sky at night

It was late afternoon, but I figured I should at least go and collect Demeter's mail, since her building is just up the street, thus manageable even for someone as footsore and in a fog of fatigue as I was.  Plodding determinedly, I noticed that, beyond the high arches of the ancient plane trees on Chester, the remaining unfallen leaves were pasted to a faintly orange sky.

By the time I'd retrieved Demeter's mail, the western horizon was opal, and I pushed my exhaustion aside to descend the hill in the direction of Cook Street Village.  I turned east to go home, but, spotting the amber glow reflected in the rows of apartment windows,  I felt compelled to stop and look back.

"Are you looking at the sunset?" inquired a voice behind me. And I fell into one of those experiences denied me in Hades: a conversation with a stranger on the nature of Pacific marine sunsets, particularly autumn ones.  People rarely struck up conversations with me in Hades (unless I was wearing my cape), and the sunsets in Ottawa were nothing to write home about.  My home is here now, thank goodness, and there is little need to write letters to Hades, even about this sunset.

The lady vanished into the approaching evening, and I hit the home stretch, my enervation largely, but not completely, forgotten.  It was becoming evident that this was going to be a magnificent sunset, so I hurried into our building and made straight for the elevator, then stepped out on to the roof.

And it was breath-taking. 

I leaned on the fence, which discourages us from wandering to the edge, and gazed at the Olympic Mountains lining the northern edge of Washington State, beyond the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The peaks stood out clearly against a crème brûlée sky - more crème than brûlée. 

Red sky at night - shepherd's delight, Demeter used to tell us. The forecast was rain for the next day - maybe because the sky was actually closer to magenta.