I have a beautiful commute

I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's the particular angle the sun's track though the sky is making with the mountains that define the Wyoming Valley. Maybe it's the leaves just unfurling from their buds on the trees that cover these mountains the way houses cover the landscape in other areas that are creating just the right proportion of reflection and shadow. Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally, finally, finally almost really and truly over this cold-turned-allergy that has had me in its grip for over a month. But it just struck me today that I have an amazingly beautiful commute.

If you've never driven South along Interstate 81 from Scranton to Nanticoke at about 6:30 on a beautiful May evening you probably don't know what I'm talking about. You've seen paintings of the scene, certainly, lines of gently lilting mountains receding in wavy undulations into the far distance, covered with great curdles of trees in shades of Spring Green and shadows in Burnt Umber, all kissed by a golden glow that probably resulted (in the painting, at least) from age-yellowed varnish. But this isn't a scene out of 16th-century Italy or the 19th-century Western frontier of America. This is real, this is now. This is Northeastern Pennsylvania in the middle of Spring about an hour before sunset.

This is my commute.

Damn, I'm glad I live here.