Rayleigh Scattering Ellen Fee
It isn’t the mountain changing but the miles of atmosphere that dye the slope in hyacinth and indigo. We watch the bluffs become sky, forgetting which shades are horizon, which water, wrapped in the last of each other’s summer hues. A loon dips into the steely lake, chasing fish. When I blink inky haze forms on your jaw, at the edges of your eyes. I am grateful for the crowded blueness of this air. I collect the molecules between us in a jar and thrust it toward you, guess how much.
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