From the west sky, a wrathful shine -- all that wild March
could afford in way of sunset --- had burst forth after the cloudy day, flooding the tired and sticky faces of
the threshers, and dyeing them with a coppery light, as also the flapping
garments of the women, which clung to them like dull flames.
-- Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbevilles (1892), ch. XLVIII
Downtown Lost Angeles:
dawn comes upon this city
like a shitmist.
Will it burn off
before noon?
Will the sun
eventually poke through ??
-- Hunter Thompson, Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72, p. 222
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