jducoeur

Above me, it is Blue. Neither the indigo of the east, nor the cyan of the west, but the perfect midpoint, platonically Blue.

Moving west, the Blue begins to lighten and fade. Mare's-tail wisps of cloud add themselves, looking like bits of lace dangled carelessly in the sky, but never so thick as to look genuinely messy -- rather, they are artistically draped across, to add a bit of Victorian elegance to a sky that would otherwise be too modernist.

Further on, the blue washes out, almost white for a bit as the red tones add themselves. The sky thickens, turning into a solid wall -- the sort of hard painted sphere that could have convinced the ancients that the globes were drawn upon it. The lower wall is a bright orange, vivid enough that it might be garish in any other setting. Down at the baseboard, it is painted the richest violet. And placed right along the bottom of the wall sits the red semi-circle of the sun, bright enough to draw the eye but no longer so much so as to blind it.

Below the horizon line, the waves are gentle, rising and falling like a sea of huge tortoises in constant motion. Their fronts are deep ocean blue, dark as the mysteries they hide; their backs are coppery bright, so the overall effect is of an reddish-orange sea, broken here and there by more ordinary tones.

At my feet, the tide is pulling out -- each wave hesitates and thinks about it before breaking onto me. They are washing away the sand beneath my shoes, but I stand there, sinking into the beach one grain at a time. I too am part of the painting, and I am in no rush to spoil it...