The world rotates away from the local star into the older light. The reflected light on the clouds over the east took on the colors of Russell or Remington paintings without the people, a landscape but with a pallet knife touches smearing a Georgia peach in all its glory of yellows and salmons turning the pines of the mountain almost aspergillus green.
Children of the craft learned from riding the sphere into and away from the stars to tell time before the incandescence of bulbs and excited gasses. They knew that the youngest light a human saw as he peered up through the branches and the leaves was lightning arches that left after images as the dark closed in behind. Maybe later, after they were lead out into the grasslands by Lucifer, God, or even the aliens (she, he, it, or they), humans learned to corral fire left over from the spear of lightning, thinking it the blood of the earth due to its ruddy hew. It is warm like blood. Or it could have been some genetic pressure that guided the hands to the friction of stick, or the spark of stone.
New light is easy now. A flicked switch heats filament or charges phosphorous from mercury gas. Less than a second to create, about the same amount of time for moonlight to reach the Earth at 360,000ish miles per second reflected from the moon.
Children of the ecliptic know that the new light of the local wanderers is not very old, not that they do not listen to the new stories, but the old light, the old stories are out beyond their star’s solar winds. This is one of the things that set the children of the craft apart.