crimson

A sea of yellow—ocher, dandelion, goldenrod—seems to support a single tree backed by a dark vacuum, but as our eyes adjust, we realize a barn in deepest alizarin crimson dominates the scene.

Then, covering our hair, we stepped inside and across perfectly hoovered crimson carpets and under chandeliers.

“All summer, there had been fewer cars on the road in Southern California, and everyone remarked on how with no smog, the sunsets weren’t deep, heated crimson. Just quiet slipping into darkness.”

A TV helicopter hovered too low, kicking up a crimson plume of dirt.

Shrouded in crimson robes, prayer beads moving rhythmically past his fingers, the monk walks towards us.