inspired by The Waves.

Early Morning.
The sun now rises later, and somewhere in the cloudy mass, is still preparing for his daily journey. He is perhaps too burdened by having seen all to come out today. This is the hour when periwinkle and rose whisper their last goodbyes, and their interlocking fingers pull away to let emerge the clarity of daybreak. The pink fades white, an evanescent cloud-shifter, and disappears for now, awaiting somewhere the evening embrace with her blue lover atop the clouds at sunset. The glory bird chirps alone to her, saying "adieu." His comrades leap from branch to branch, one by one, each scattering his appearance among empty tree branches of hideaway. Lady birds join his song in dainty harmony, lamenting the hidden sun this morning. A strip of golden sets on the weary uppermost branch tips as the sun finally makes his appearance. They bathe in his warm embrace, bow to him, and extend their fingertips for a dance with his highness. The waters are still now, except for an almost imperceptible tremble with the slight breezes. The things it has toppled in the night still remain in a state of upside-down confusion, but the wind feels no regret. The pond's calm being serves as a reflection pool, a looking-glass for the naked trees, to admire their appearances in the first hints of light. A lonely streetcar passes down a road of blue, its presence hushed and stilled by the nature around it. The simple bird calls again in alarm, for he discovers his morning has broken.

Afternoon.
The sun is high in the sky now. He yawns and stretches his gilded rays, pushing into the faces of houses and causing passers-by to squint. Cars pass two by two, drifting casually to their destinations. The lampposts droop their heads in indifference, enjoying their dreaming hours. Branches converge and part, converge and part, bobbing together in rhythm with the gentle stirring breeze. This is the hour of blue; his plentiful body stretches hue and shade widely over squinters and streetcars. This is the time of periwinkle-white, golden blocks of glare supporting and contrasting the embrace of pale azure. Bits of star bathe on their bellies on windows and other glistening surfaces, having fallen from heaven to celebrate this joyous hour. The waters giggle directly under the sun's glare, push each other around and create undulations of sweet content. The people are scarce, they remain in buildings or in moving vehicles, perhaps playing or working or singing sweet songs to one another. They cannot, then, feel the tingle of warmth and breeze, smell the perfume of sunlight that makes drowsy tree and petal. But it is consuming and they feel it through brick walls.

Late Afternoon.
The sun has pulled his lacy blankets of cloud over him and has submitted to early drowsiness, leaving a legacy of soft hues on the last few tree leaves. The waters rock themselves to the wind's song, making baby waves and reflecting the dangling trunks with nervous, shaking hands. A definite coolness has arrived here, and dries the drooping, gaunt fingers of the treetops. They break off in millions, as dancers in still-life, slender branches dripping down over the water, while the tall, fine trunks stretch upward into the sun's secret hideaway. Unfaithful he is today, in a most dreary, crisp day of grey-blue smudges of sky caressing the coarse, sinewy heads of the trees. A silence ensues, a reminiscent muteness of ended travels and day's play. The simple cars make their rounds on smooth, grey road. Leaves and lights droop and tremble, for they have no purpose for now. Brownish leaf-piles rustle and break apart and transform into a couple of baby deer who are merely caught behind a fence. The sun, the stillness, leaf and sky, all are caught somewhere in late afternoon lethargy.

Night.
The sun has set definitively. All that is left in the sky is a patch of amalgamated blues snug between the tree branches, as if leaning closely into them to hear their analysis of the day's affairs. All is secret now. All is a dwindling cave of deep hue, all melting into the matter next to and surrounding it. A pale strip of yellow road is the only distinct form. It stretches a horizontal arm eternally into the trees from opposite ends, as if also digging for their secrets in the night air. Now and then a twinkling streetlight appears behind immense gathered trunks, gathering all the eye's attention, a brilliant contrast to the thickening void of black vertical lines. It is apparent only at the proper angle, at the proper head's turn, apparent only to the seeker who wishes to seek more, to find something vivid in this deep shade of sleeping forest. It lights the way for the street-car, which makes its last final push down the road, maybe home, maybe away. He is ubiquitous at this hour, obvious and now all are aware of his passing. He is out of sight, and the waters wave him goodbye, lit by the edges of sandy beige ground that illuminates in the light of the streetlamp. They ripple goodbye, and die into the night as the lamp flickers out.