In the moments of sunrise, the world comes into existence. Not spoken sudden in a “let there be” command but a slow flush like an ink blot running along the weave of paper.
Depending on the weather, different colors appear before others. The atmosphere filters each day: one it will be yellows first, another the reds, still another it’s grey to sepia to technicolor.
But most often, green seizes the light before the other colors. Hints of spring new growth even in February tinge the tree outside my window, an outline of color around grey shapes. It makes sense: green’s whole job is to catch the light, converting it to energy–little pumps for the air we breathe.
Greens have their being in light, so they can’t help but lift their chin to day’s first kiss.