What is that blue? That streaked soul of winter morn, so deeply colored I would swear someone spilled ink across the sky. I cannot get enough of it, I drink of it's richly held secrets, the liquid ether that passes through my fingers as sweetly as the water that springs from the chalice of the earth. And where the fields bleed into night and the lamplight dissolves into the shadows of twilight, the fields of sky are haunted with the ghosts of creatures from the deep, a evanescent light that hovers with such frailty. That morning light is so elusively coy, melting into day beyond my eyes. And yet, it slides back into the bookend of day, and holds the land captive within it's riveting gaze for a moment or two, until it simply dissipates into night. It is the colour of awe.