“...early on Monday evening, when the sky was the color of a velvet ribbon falling over the hills.”
“It was early evening when they walked outside, the sky the color of pink lemonade.”
“The sky was as blue and delicate as a porcelain teacup, and the hills rolled gently in all directions, intersected occasionally with the silver ribbon of a river.”
“The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit.”
“Even as winter comes, mornings are crisp, and the big, blue sky seems to hang newly washed over the sea of hills.”
“Toward the evening the sky took on the same color as the fires. Everything took on that color, the sky, the buildings, even the ground. Just before the sunset the red in the sky would deepen to the color of blood. I imagined the sky bleeding. I imagined the heavens suffering with us. To this day a red sunset reminds me of the bleeding sky of Auschwitz.”