Wet sun

The mild sun, born at the altitude of stars, golden arms stretched for the earth, drenched in droplets that poured from streams atop the mountains, didn’t warm the wind-soaked soil in a burst of fire, didn’t light up a flame, instead spread its myriad wings to paint terrestrial colours, fire that dissolved in earth and water, until the sun of golden dreams went to rest at night, million stars peeped in for a glimpse of the privileged earth that lay hidden in the glow of day, and as horizon beckoned the burning disk, a veil was woven, that lit up with darkness the world of birds and trees, a world where beings are as real as their shadows.

The setting sun and its reflection in a half-filled, or half-empty, bottle of water.