She’d never seen a sun as that. He’d never seen her gaze such way, adoration-fix upon the seeing: flame surround and hold of light, like shavings of the sun or phosphoric firework without settle, fall, or diminish of brilliance.
She fixed to the sun beyond wind dance of the paled bluestem waving in near’s view.
She doubted, not disbelieving—but nearly so—that it was true: the sight of sun and sky shavings in surround and burn.
But it was a strange place of enchantments and possibilities, and the mystic hours of evening shade were risen and woke with low-falling of the sun: mystic hours, magic place when anything could be; and the vision dazzled.