It seemed the dark trees were shadows stirring up the blue dust, but the sun was stirring setting memories of purple clouds.  Perhaps it was the sky of blue like the color above the water of the lake.  Wandering near the lake, it seemed to be the flowers creeping into the spring that brought the color to the waves, or it might have been the fluid flapping of crisp clothing as the breeze ruffled the petals.  Finding such a luminous shade and tugging upon it with ropes, the frown of emotion lent, to sorrow, its illusion from drama.  This implied other shifts made convincing by the old screens in the dim rooms where the softness of illumination brought imagination into a singularity of movement.  Arriving there, rumors about a traveler persisted until the dark night made the eyes blue, to see, at the edges, everything the same.