Its source is miles away
Behind it, the sun gossamers everything in rusty yellow.
Like Miss Havisham's wedding dress.
It hazily shines on everything, coaxing its color out of objects you would not expect:
the backs of blackbirds
the tips of leaves
the needles of pines
the expanse of lawns
What was already yellow is now lightly oranged.
Sulfurous in appearance. It reminds me of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.
Or an only recently cursed version of Lewis's Charn.
The tarnished sunlight streaks the sides of cars a tainted, oldish gold,
like expired paint.
It glints off their chrome trim in the same hue, not the usual blinding, white-light pinpoints the eye cannot stomach.
I can't smell it though. Some years you can. Sharp and acrid and brown.