Suzie

“In the small hours of a cold February dawn, Justin and I walked to the Pacific, high cliffs eroding over the ocean, crashed and crashed by lapping salty waves. Their spray misted us in day’s young purple air, exhilarating. Walking the Golden Gate Bridge, our world receding, pale gold sunrise lit thin fog, morning coloring us like a faded fairy tale.”
― Aspen Matis, Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir

“Across the lilies was a pond, its waters a vibrant green from reflecting the trees around it. In the center of the pond swam two elegant white birds, their long necks curved toward one another.
"Swans!" Cinderella breathed. She leaned against the bridge's rail and gazed at the pair of swans gliding across the pond.
At her side, Charles rested his elbows on the bridge. "They're here every evening before sundown. Sometimes, during sunset, you can see the light dapple their feathers. Look."
Rays of golden light stroked the swans' wings, which shimmered against the still waters.
"I used to come here whenever I could to watch them," said Prince Charles. "I'm certain it's been the very same pair of swans for years. When I saw them, I'd feel a little less lonely."
"How happy they look," mused Cinderella, watching as the swans took flight, their feet skidding across the pond before they soared into the sky. "Free to come and go as they please.”
― Elizabeth Lim, So This is Love

“The quality it had now, in fresh untempered sunlight, was neither faerie nor austere; the changing shadows of dusk and midnight had vanished with the darkness and the rain, and walls and roof and towers were bathed in the radiance that comes only in the first hours of the day, soft, new-washed, the delicate aftermath of dawn. The people who slept within must surely bear some imprint of this radiance in themselves, must turn instinctively to the light seeping through the shutters, while the ghostly dreams and sorrows of the night slipped away, finding sanctuary in the unwakened forest trees the sun had not yet touched.”
― Daphne du Maurier, The Scapegoat

“Heaven might have streets of gold, but this entire town is covered in it. Amber sunlight is everywhere, glowing off of the yellow brick buildings, reflecting from the windows, even hanging in the dust. Sunlight, apparently, smells like slightly overripe fruit, the kind perfect for the picking, that shouldn’t be left for any other day. It’s meant to be enjoyed now.”
― Corinne Beenfield, Where Green Meets Blue