“Don’t you love the way of tree-lines in the spring?” he asked as they stared on sight of one before.
To him, they seemed of painted brush dabbed in yellow-green—hand mixed in course and haste that left vibrance yellow-bright in flash and standing out from rest—and blotted over brown and violet lines of timber stand. White blotted same, layered amongst the lines, from wild cherries in wooded hide and in flash at tree-line’s edge.
Above, blue sky held in it clouds seeming, too, of brush: crumpled balls of cotton-down and higher streaks beginning white, distinct in form, then thinned, ever-lightened in definition, until lost in fade and blend to blue.
Understory of the tree-line shone as well of yellow-green, flush in understory life before canopy of summer-shadow.
Pastures were green. Fields were a new-clean brown that smelled in the air, fresh turned off disks and cultivator shovels that made ready earth for seed; and of the checkerboard green and brown, landscape painted in line and sign of grid-mark settle that, in forgottenness, found its way back to a wild.
“It’s hard to not feel a romance when the world is painted so,” he spoke to her as they lived in one right then.