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The sky outside my office window is such a vivid blue this morning, deep blue, clouds and haze paling it only at the very horizon, though her eand there a thin band or a dapple brush of soft white cloud touches the middle of the sky.
Morning sun: everything is strong. The purple leaves of these trees I do not know, the dark green of the fir, the brighter (somehow cleaner, younger) green of the deciduous trees among them.
The brick of the building across the way is a pale pink, paler than its usual, and the protective coating on the windows there (and on my windows, through which I look) renters them a vivid sea green in the morning sun.
Birds fly, moving from tree to tree or soaring sharply up in front of my windows. Perhaps they sit on the roof; perhaps they nest under it. Cars move in the parking lots, people still coming to work, the glint of sunlight stronger than neon purple or flaming scarlet, the colors half-imagined beneath the gloss of light.
The street is half in the shade of the trees, the asphalt dark grey, and next ot it the other lane, sun-touched and pale, the yellow double-line wavering in and out of clarity: vivid lemon, mustard, vivid lemon.
It lacks only rain, whose touch would soften, cool, gentle, glisten in the light - but might take away the diamond-hard edges, the crisp clarity of the morning, the sun, trees, sky, the breeze tugging at the leaves. Much as I love the water, let it not steal one moment of this morning....
Morning sun: everything is strong. The purple leaves of these trees I do not know, the dark green of the fir, the brighter (somehow cleaner, younger) green of the deciduous trees among them.
The brick of the building across the way is a pale pink, paler than its usual, and the protective coating on the windows there (and on my windows, through which I look) renters them a vivid sea green in the morning sun.
Birds fly, moving from tree to tree or soaring sharply up in front of my windows. Perhaps they sit on the roof; perhaps they nest under it. Cars move in the parking lots, people still coming to work, the glint of sunlight stronger than neon purple or flaming scarlet, the colors half-imagined beneath the gloss of light.
The street is half in the shade of the trees, the asphalt dark grey, and next ot it the other lane, sun-touched and pale, the yellow double-line wavering in and out of clarity: vivid lemon, mustard, vivid lemon.
It lacks only rain, whose touch would soften, cool, gentle, glisten in the light - but might take away the diamond-hard edges, the crisp clarity of the morning, the sun, trees, sky, the breeze tugging at the leaves. Much as I love the water, let it not steal one moment of this morning....