A fine day comes as a sweet ballerina, giving her performance to empty stalls or crowded house just the same.
A fine day is the best kind of day, ambient and kind to eyes and skin, the kind of day that lets you be the art upon its canvas.
It's a fine day for sure, from the sunlight to the birdsong, yet what makes it good is having you right here with me.
A fine day had come as the opening of a beloved book, the story ahead one that promised joy and happiness.
On this fine day I walk down the street under a sun that warms my skin in the same way mother’s apple pie brings warmth to my core. Music comes from a radio, yet somehow the background ambiance is clean, as if this music was that freshly baked apple pie upon a white tablecloth, the tune dancing in the same way a fragrance does.
White heaven-bound birds were as brilliant rays from wind-dappled sea-water; their brightness amid otherwise infinite blue, gliding as free souls. In each wing-given arc they were the tips of a conductor's wand, a music for both eyes and soul, bringing a wave of sweet earthly joy.
It was one of those baby-blue skies, not the psychedelic candy-blue nor the washed out grey so characteristic of wintry mornings. The clouds were as puffs of radiant joy, ready to disperse into the wind, to travel our Earth. I watched them eddy, pure reflected rays dappled and swirling with sky, until all that remained was that perfect baby-blue, the same hue as before, as if inviting those born of wing to ride warm thermal air heaven-bound.
Somewhere above this sky, born of the colour of summer Iris, swirl galaxies of brilliant stars. On fine days such as this I feel their energy the same way the smile of one I love infuses my soul, raises me higher. So I pause, let my feet join the serenity of quietness, and breathe. That's when I feel it all the more, sense energy from the trees, the birdsong and the very soil upon which I stand. They say the universe is all connected, as are we all, and in this moment it's so tangible, real.
In this light that paints my skin so warmly, the trees are dancing ladies, each in dresses more fabulous than any designer can craft. They move, choreographed by the wind, in perfect time with one another. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, and I wonder how many hues of green my eyes are witnessing. As they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, drinking in rays as pure as the rain, I stretch my arms up too, fingers spread toward the sun and slowly begin to dance.
After so many days of London drizzle the weather Gods had decided to send the sun. It was the promise of winter lifting, the end of grey bitter days. Ahead yawned the spring, blossoms and blooms. The city folk, young and old, walked with a new bounce in their stride, heads held high to take in the first kiss of spring warmth.
It was a fine day in New York city. The week long storm had washed every sidewalk and gutter clean and a tincture of freshness still lingered in the air despite the traffic fumes. The vibrancy of the city had bounced back in the instant the clouds cleared and already the parks were a hum of activity.
The day was postcard perfect, even the buses were running on time. Downtown the skyscrapers shone silver in the morning sun and the sky was an unbroken backdrop of blue. Commuters walked like shoals of fish in a myriad of directions, not one of them in winter garb. Trisha smiled, so spring had arrived in Seattle and for once it wasn't with a deluge of rain.
The leaves in the park have their first autumnal blush and though the tarmac path is wet from the night's rain the sky above promises no more. In an hour or so the path will be dry and the leaves will spring up, their water weight gone. Breathing in the fresh air and feeling it on his face is a tonic for Mac after the oppressive summer heat.
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