Often, when I walk on Bret Harte Road around sunset and look across the gorge between the ridges of the undulating hills and happen to spot a house with the lights on I am reminded of fairy tales. Not that I feel lost, but there is a sense of other-worldliness in the space of twilight. Here the landscape rearranges itself. The mountain fades, first into a wash of pastels, then the slow tide of night swallows it whole. And the trees, seemingly so benign and gently green in the light of day, appear to fill out and grow as darkness comes to harvest whatever color still clings to the reflective leaves.