The Sun

Sunset- summer-glare
In the unrelenting glare of midday, the only shadow is that which pools at my feet.
The strong sun on my white hair will burn me in minutes if I don't find shelter.
Wherever I choose must be a good place to lay low until the late evening, these rays
aren't dying anytime soon. All the better if it's some place so foul that no-one has
looted it yet. I prefer to make use of my time.

-The sun is above my head, baking{metaphor} my dark hair, slowly

simmering [boiling] my brain in its cerebral fluid. I want to seek shade but that
will only make me later, and I'm late enough already. As my feet pound the hot
tarmac I keep an eye on my shadow. Any significant shape beyond this blobby puddle
that laps my toes and I'm in deep trouble. Getting there later than one o'clock means
being fired, and these gangs don't just hand you a pink slip. Despite the heat I begin to
run, sweat washing mascara into my eyes, stinging...
-It was midday and we could see the heat shimmering off (like smoke) the
parked cars like a haze. In heat like this the tarmac is like a frying pan and
going outside, out of the air conditioning, feels like walking into an oven. But that's
Texas summers for you.

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-From the pool of shadow that bathes my feet and nothing else, I know it is midday.
But in this late fall the sun has lost its intensity[strength}, I can step out
without fear of burning. Only a few weeks ago the streets would have been deserted at
this time of day, but now the street vendors carry on selling and there is no shortage of
customers.
-The midday sun was the only good thing about the day. All about was snow, ice
and everything that sapped your heat. But that sun promised to give some back, to
fall gently on your chilled skin and remind you that spring would follow. Were
it not for our sunglasses its glare would render [ make} us quite blind and likely
it's warming was only imagined, but we loved it all the same. Noon each day would find
us climbing the lane toward the mailbox in snow-shoes.

-In the Seattle July the midday sun was deliciously warm, as it rose we felt our
spirits rise with it. It was the first real warmth of the summer and we were ready for it.
We took out the patio[ something similar to a balcony ] furniture and basked
(relax and sun bathe) like lizards. If it weren't for the sunscreen we would have
burnt for sure, but we'd slathered [ dahan] it on before we went out.

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-A malevolent (evil minded) unblinking yellow eye stares down at me from the
cloudless sky [ personification]. In a child's picture book it look would look friendly
and gay. But here in the Sahara there is nothing friendly about it. Here the midday sun
is your enemy and you'd better show it some respect. Or else you will learn your
lessons the hard way, and trust me, that's not the way you want to do it.

-The sun was at its highest. The heat beat down on my head like I was meat
under the grill. I could almost smell myself cooking. I stood in my own shadow
puddle with crisp edges that moved as I swayed in the sultry (hot & humid)
heat. It was Midday. They say only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday
sun. I'm not English. So I guess I must be a mad dog. The Sun
Sunlight comes as woven strands, free and united, flowing into a day it reveals and
solidifies, making the world of our nightly dreams something so beautiful. Each tree is a
masterpiece, each wand of grass something magical. And this is our world, our normal
everyday world, the present with each rise of the sun that we can marvel at or ignore;
the choice is ours, it always was.
-Today the sunlight conjured the most brilliant of mosaics, reflecting from each leaf and
wisp of cloud. It was as if there was a pure joy in the light, as if it were happy to create

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art where it shone, warm and steady. It was as the smiles of friends, as fresh rain after
summer sun, something to quench and soothe all at once.

-My eyes rest upon golden arcing rays, knowing the dark is far and ever lit by stars. It
is the illumination that gives vivacious hues to this world of living art.
The early morning sunlight, soft and diffuse, gives way to the first strong rays of the
day, the ones that bring true warmth. In this light, water evaporates in slow waves,
waves that eddy in the gentle breeze, flowing upward to white-puffed clouds, ships of
white in the blue above. The opera from the trees becomes all the more powerful, as if
these golden rays are their conductor's wand, and together they are the song that calls
forth the spring.
-Sunlight comes, an elixir after so many black hours. The air becomes sweeter; birds
soften the dawn with their chorus; we breathe more deeply as if permission has been
bestowed. Already the greyness is gone, evaporated as fast as desert rain, and the heat
of the day can already be felt.

 She was panting heavily and her heart beat erratically.

 She slid to a stop, panting and wild.
 He steadied himself with his hands on his knees for a moment, panting; then
opened a bottle of water and started to drink, fast; desperate to quench his
thirst.

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 DOG PANTING
 That damn dog never knew when to quit. He never knew when to quit his
barking, his slobbering or panting his rancid breath in my face when he wanted
his breakfast. I lost count of the number of times I dreamed of rehoming him or
not looking for him after he ran away. The day the black bear came for Gracie in
the street he didn't know when to quit either. I had popped in to get an ice-
cream and when I returned the bear was just feet away from her. For a moment
I stood frozen, unable to decide whether to run for her, double back for a
kitchen knife or just scream. In that moment Buddy ran between my legs and
tore after that bear, barking, teeth bared. The bear was taken aback and
retreated a few steps before turning to lunge and swipe. Like I said, that damn
dog never knew when to quit. Never when to quit wagging her tail, or giving us
loving doggy eyes, or behaving like a puppy when the leash got jangled. And
never when to quit fighting for her Gracie
 ----------------------------------


 As the sun sank lower toward the greying silhouettes of the woodland trees, the
dogs moved wolfishly in a pack. Their brindled coats merged with the fading
dappled shadows and they hunkered low to the ground. It had been three
generations since they had become feral. The poodles and other long haired
breeds just hadn't been able to survive without their regular visits to the
groomers. The small dogs hadn't made it either, most likely they were picked off
by the coyotes. Many starved or were rounded up by the city pound and shot.
They had been turned out when a wild rumour circled the internet about canine
flu, but the only thing viral was the propaganda. People had panicked and turned
them out to fend for themselves. The canine flu turned out to be the most
successful hoax of recent times, but the collective guilt of what we did to our
"best friends" stops people believing it. Anyone who mentions its falseness is
shunned and those who clamour for their extermination are embraced.
 -----------------------------------

Despite the trouble of feeding them the dogs were worth their weight in produce. At
night if any stray person or bear approached the enclave they would kick up such an
unholy stink that the entire community was awake and reaching for whatever arms
they possessed. The children were dispersed to separate underground hide-outs in
pairs and knew to keep quiet. We used to corral them in the middle and surround
them like animals often to to protect their young. But one day an Outsider broke
through and almost killed three of them before he was jumped on by half a dozen of
the teenagers. So these dogs with their fleas, their drool and appetites are rewarded
like family. Because to us they are loved ones. Brave. Loyal. Cherished.

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  -----------------
 Anyone who knows canine nature need hardly, be told that, by this time, all the
other dogs in the place were fighting as if their hearths and homes depended on
the fray. The big dogs fought each other indiscriminately; and the little dogs
fought among themselves, and filled up their spare time by biting the legs of the
big dogs.

SUN RAYS
The man holds his hands up to feel the cascading (surge/fall like a
waterfall) light, a brilliant white shaft (ray) illuminating the path that takes
him onward to what seems to be his home.

3- When she looked up the roofs were so close together that

she could only make out (see) a sliver of the blue sky
that was mirrored by the tiny stream of light that
trickled (flow) along the cold stone ground.
(impression/what she sees)
4- The alleyway twisted and turned back on itself, first going to the right,
then to the left. From where Alice stood, whether she look in front or
behind, she saw nothing but stone (general view)

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cloud
 On this morning the clouds diffuse [ spread] the daylight to a
soft gentle sweetness (clouds are covering the strong sun];
even out in the street I could be cozy under my duvet in a strong
summer light. They move much as the ocean [float across the
sky], showing the blue {sky} amid [in the middle] the
whitish dove-grey, a medley (mixture) of silvers that ripple
{waves of the sea} outwards to adorn (decorate) the sky.
 As fluffy as cotton candy


 The sky is consumed in numerous shades of grey and white and

black. It looks like the sun has given up on trying to break
through this iron curtain of clouds {bad clouds/ winter
/right before heavy rain} that it has become content to lounging
out behind them.
 Clouds move in the morning sky, kissed into brilliant white by
the sun. They move south toward the ocean, together yet
independent. Gaps widen and close {spaces between the
clouds}, one slides right under another and always they are
changing shape.
 Sun-kissed white clouds blossom {like a flower} in the blue,
free to fly with the wind. In the long horizon they take on silver hues,
those deeper graphite tones that promise good rain.
 Black clouds/smoke sprawl across the sky, billowing in from
the west. Their brassy glare drains colour from houses and trees
and burnished cars in driveways, leaving neighbourhoods tinted
bronze in the faltering (loosing strength) light. The air grows heavy
and the humidity presses down, suffocating. The scent of rain is dark
and heady. A stillness falls over the street, and in the silence comes a
low crackle of thunder, rolling across rooftops to the pattering of tiny

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 raindrops. For a moment, everything stops. Even the wind holds its
breath. A streak of hot silver splits the sky, and the downpour begins.

 The boom rolled across the valley, announcing the start of what the
brooding cloud layer had promised since dawn. The boughs of the
trees swayed in the strengthening gust, surrendering their fall leaves
without a fight. Then came the first drops of rain like bullets to our
tin roof and we peeked through the closed shutters to the vegetable
patch beyond. Outside is dark, the dense grey cloud block out the
morning light, casting us in premature twilight, but inside our home it
is darker, almost black, and so we can see out just fine. On the far
hill a jagged bolt of white hot lightening splits the chilly sky, and then
it is gone. The thunder is only a second behind and whilst us kids
wear unfettered grins, our parents are gaunt and pacing, exchanging
tense glances. Then comes a banging like someone is taking a sledge
hammer to the roof and in time with the noise a few shafts of weary
light are making shadows on the walls. Then Mamma shrieks "The
roof, Harold, look!"

 Tabitha had never been shy of a little rain. As a girl she had
embraced the wet days, her sister would stare mournfully from the
window, but she would have on her rubber boots and rain slicker and
out she'd go; splashing, jumping, drinking the drops in her open
mouth. So when the wind picked up on her cliff-top walk, three miles
from home, she glanced up at the blackened cloud that dominated
the sky above and felt a rush of excitement. After a few experimental
drops the clouds unleashed a torrent of water, driven by s wind
strong enough to push the gorse bushes flatter and scatter their
golden petals like confetti. The waves became titans, smashing into
the sandstone below, and the sea that had been so dark under the
gloomy sky was now white with foam and spray. Between crashing
waves, howling wind and lashing of rain on her head, she could not

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 hear above the din and her vision was merely a few feet. Her feet
began to slip in the newly wet mud and she backed away from the
cliff edge

THE MOON
In my monochrome musings the moon is a deep silver, as if she were a rock
alone in space, turning pirouettes for no applause. Yet when I look for real and open
my eyes that tiny bit more, I see an orb with the company of the sun, reflecting
light, not silver, but with a buttermilk glow (white). She is there, close to our
Earth, keeping us company while she may.

The silver moon was high in the sky giving off the only light, apart from the
lampposts {street lamps} whose rays died inches from the dirty tungsten bulbs.

-The place was silvered and transformed by the light of the moon, which, at
the full, hung like a great luminous pearl on the radiant breast of heaven.
(sky) imagery
-The runaways huddled behind the old factory, Sammy almost cutting off the blood
supply to his sister's hand with his vice-like grip. It was deserted, disintegrating and
overgrown with Giant Hogweed. Had there been more light they might have been able
to follow the path over the moors, to the pastor in the old stone church, but the moon
hung smoky and yellow behind thin {scudding /billowing} (move fast in a
straight line because or as if driven by the wind.) Clouds/smoke. It had no
brilliance {bright} to offer them, no silvery light to lessen their darkness. And
all the while the rain kept drumming onto their shaven scalps, blasting out the noise of
the approaching Catcher, lulling them into a false sense of security. Every escape
attempt someone was allowed to survive to tell the others of the horror, but that also
meant each time the rest of them leant from mistakes of the fallen; instructions writ
large in blood. Now they knew never to leave unless the moon was a brilliant orb of
white radiance unfettered by clouds, but who would be the one the bear the message...

-Max awoke with a start, unsure of why. He grabbed his revolver with the instinct of a
veteran and moved soundlessly to the mouth of the tent. The French countryside was
almost as dark as it had been under the military green canvas. Above, the moon had
waned to a slim crescent [small oon looks loike the letter], a sliver of glowing
white in an otherwise inky /jet black sky that failed to even bring his

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surroundings into grey scale. He ducked back inside and reached for his night vision
visor (a movable part of a helmet that can be pulled down to cover the face.), this was
no time to be relying on moonlight.

It was a warm night in April, with a waning moon hanging like a hunter's horn
high overhead...C
-The blue moon illuminated the tenebrous (dark and shadowy), starless sky as
if the stars ensconced (settled) themselves behind the dim, gray clouds

-such florescence and dominance could not be hidden behind the creeping
gray clouds, the moon shone intimidatingly on the land beneath it like that of
the eye of the devil straight into the soul of the damned.

-The moon looked pale and wan, as if it shouldn't be up on a night like this. It
rose unwillingly and hung like an ill specter. Silhouetted against it, dim and hazy
through the dampness which rose from the unwholesome fens, stood the assorted
towers...
-The moon shone over its white stone buildings, quietly sleeping in the still
hours of the night, as over the white, silent slabs of a country churchyard.

-Tonight the moon is playing peek-a-boo, weaving in and out of ribbons of

black clouds scudding [moving]across the sky.

-The full moon shone down on the crystal and seemed to blaze there.

-The moon, swinging low in the heavens, cast long, deep shadows far down
the trail.

-The U.S.A had the first people to land on the moon with the program called Apollo.
The Moon is a natural satellite. The Moon is not a perfect circle; it has craters which in
packed the surface of the Moon.
-The moon was a white-grey disc sailing in the cloudless sea; streams of
moonlight sank into the island bleeding silver.

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