Sentences with phrase «bright sun burning»

This is my favourite so far be sure to view the larger version you really get the feeling there's a real bright sun burning away behind those trees.

Not exact matches

The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun - dials and brick walks and burning gardens — finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run.

The sun burned bright and the pebbles in the grave's dirt sparkled.

The sun burned bright and the pebbles in the grave's dirt lit up the hole.

That wacky dissertation symbolized a culture of academic malpractice that could never be acceptable to a man who had once believed that the university was where all the darkness of Plato's cave of illusions would burn away in the bright sun of understanding.

Sweltering thick Virginia days burn bright, the sun bearing heat like a whip.

I even put my hat on as the sun was burning bright.

So - called asymptotic giant branch stars are bright, aging suns that burn both hydrogen and helium, and astronomers have caught them manufacturing fluorine.

The bubble consists of material cast off from a star that burns several hundred thousand times brighter than the sun.

Avoid the noontime sun — this is when the sun's rays are at their brightest, and skin is more susceptible to burning.

There is a light It burns brighter than the sun He steals the night And casts no shadow There is hope Should oceans rise and mountains fall He never fails

On film, it occasionally manifests itself in period pieces that focus on the encroachment and proliferation of the railroad: its engines (as in King Vidor's Duel in the Sun and Beyond the Forest, or the Hughes Brothers» From Hell) the manifestation of the industrial revolution in terms of hellmouths and serpents — William Blake's «Tyger» burning bright in the forests of a primordial night, all - consuming and inexorable.

Orange and red rock formations burned bright under the winter sun as Cerro Pedernal looked on.

I turned to look at the man sitting next to me, who was carefully studying a map: an athletic retiree with a bald, sun - burnt head, closely clipped beard and bright blue eyes behind smudged glasses.

Listen to the gentle lapping of water as the houseboat sails into the sun and sky fills with stars burning bright.

The white sand burns your feet and the sea seems to glow, reflecting the bright hot sun through crystal clear waters.

Across the gallery from the protagonist hangs a large painting with a bright white sunburst radiating from its center, Sun Burn (Split) 1 by Emily Joyce.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

Mr. Solanki does not know what is causing the sun to burn brighter now or how long this cycle would last.

On the topic of the intensely burning sun, very bright also.

Some past changes in the climate were driven by the sun burning brighter, or by an increase in volcanic activity.