It is an undercurrent, not the green of life or the thrill of red, but it is there tying it all together, in the distant hills on the horizon.
In winter it's that icey blue. It's chilling and crisp and sends you into a yellow glow for warmth.
With spring it finds its way into the flowers and dyes the sky deeper.
Over summer it's in the waves and the dresses of the pretty girls, coated in butter sunshine.
And in the fall it's there among all those bright reds, tinting the grey, peeking out from between the clouds, rebuilding the year again.