Portrait of a sunset.

I didn't have my camera, but I do have words.

As I lay upon my back, the grass as my pillow, the sky as my ceiling,
I saw a sunset
Not of passionate streaks of violent reds and burning oranges.
'Twas a quiet, wintry sunset of pale yellows,
Soft blues and violets, each blending
Hand in hand,
One with another,
Sweetly, gently singing a story of forgotten winter eves.

Sunsets and hot-air ballons.