Pale is the gold dust that the rising sun generously dispenses on to the top of the mountains sprawled out till as far as the eye can see. In a while, a smooth champagne pours out, seeps through, in stripes, long and thin, through nooks between trees that oversee short, stubby coffee plants. The molten yellow runs into the roof tops of mansions nestled in the drop middle of expansive estates that have coffee plants with ripen beans in them and tall silver oak trees with pepper twines around them. Awash in the same molten liquid, the strands of hay on thatched huts catch a ray there, a warm sparkle here.
The gold turns deeper, the bright gaze is one of sunshine morning glory. And another day is ready to start about its business!