The sun was low in the sky but not yet setting. From my vantage point the trees in the front yard were shining. And though I knew it was a reflected gleam, I could not shake the belief that they had generated that light themselves. Beyond the leaves was the sky — and it was the shade of blue it turns before going out for the night — a radiant hue.
The landscape had the sentimental, heroic scale of a Bierstadt painting, which was no doubt caused by exhaustion and bouncers' (instead of runners') high.
But it was as real to me as any humdrum scene, as real as the pale dawn now unfolding outside my door.
(Albert Bierstadt, Forest Sunrise)