The air about is silver, glistens as the breeze picks up. It’s how you know she’s near. That wind could carry her to Troy, and a thousand ships would sail for her. Upon that sea, every tide seen crimson against setting light, and the nightfall in starry muse of her. Every star lit ivory, every ray dull except upon her face. Every shadow to take a knee, and stay so as she walks by. For none could have such grace, in nature, in city. In history, in times yet to pass, it is her. A beauty that is always.