I should write an entry about all the time we wasted the Friday after Christmas looking for a post office. Spent the better part of two hours driving major city avenues full of busy holiday shoppers, and depriving sons of much needed shopping time to expend the gift certificates burning holes in their pockets, just because the nice guy at Kinko's didn't know the difference between Highway 83 and Highway 24. And the wife had an envelope that absolutely, positively had to get out that day.

Covered a lot of country looking for Highway 24.

Highway 83 was just two blocks away.

I will have you all know, when we finally conceded defeat and returned to the point of origination to try again, it was moi who got the bright idea of jumping out and going into the nearest store for better directions. And learned we needed to take Hwy 83, not Hwy 24.

Imagine that. A male asking for directions.

Holiday miracles never cease.

Anyway, when we finally found the new P.O. at the northern limits of town (and sampled their free Cmas cookies), we had a wonderful view of a gorgeous sunset on the way home. Great ribbons of pink and orange above the Front Range.

And me with no camera.

Saturday's sunset was shaping up to be similar, so I grabbed the camera and walked down the hill to the park that covers my old horny toad hunting grounds.

Now, they've added a bunch of trees to that slope. Trees that tend to get in the way of mountains and clouds. And lots and lots of powerlines and streetlights.

The only really good spot for presentable photos is at the upper-most corner, across the parking lot access road from the last house on the street.

The place with the dalmation.

And the grungy, long-haired balding guy who apparently works contract construction, since he pulled up in his beat-up old truck and trailer full of metal duct supplies as I stood there by his house idly waiting for the sun to set.

He paused as he gathered gear from the trailer. I expected some snide "what are you doing here?" challenge.

Nope.

"You should have seen it yesterday," was his opening remark.

Turns out he is well aware of the view his property affords. And is one of those rare folks who takes the time to just stand and watch sunrises and sunsets.

He says they're better in the winter when the leaves are off the trees. We visited from when the clouds were white until they were pink tending to orange. Then he went in, and I shot my shots:

One thing I noticed on this trip was how brief sunsets are along the mountains. In our country the colours take a good part of an hour to go through their spectrum. But not with those granite behemoths rising to the west. Just as the cloud colours get perfect, they suddenly turn off, like with a switch, and hang there like grey ghosts.

And this still isn't the entry I wanted to write.

I wanted to write about teapots. And maybe the wife and I having over three hours alone Sunday night.

Maybe later.