When I was a kid, I used to paint pictures. Grass was green. Sky was blue.
Now I am older and if I was asked if the sky was blue I would stop, hesitate, then prevaricate.
It is, I suppose, blue if you create the limits for that blueness. No clouds, Sun well above the horizon. Yes, blue. Different shades. Milky blue when dust-laden. Dark blue when the Arctic air spills down to these latitudes. At night, of course, it is anything but blue. Black. With sparks of light, several thousand the last time I counted, ranging from the husky red of Betelgeuse to the icy blue of Rigel and all colours in between. At dusk the sky shifts through all the reds and oranges that exist before the inky wash of the night submerges the colours. They have not really gone, it is fair to say, simply moved on. They will return in more or less reverse order at dawn.
Then there are the clouds. White, I used to paint them. They are seldom as simple as that. There is a lot of grey in that mix. Yellows too. Sometimes both. From the wispy cirrus to the gunmetal, towering cumulonimbus. So many shades of grey.
So, is the sky blue? Certainly not. Anything but. Um. Er. So, let’s try to be adult, complicated and negative here. It sure isn’t green! I’m sure the sky isn’t green.
Through the window is the black, nearly midnight sky. There were solar storms a few days ago and the northern sky has the dancing aurora borealis adding to the mix of colours. It is green. That part of the sky is green.
Childhood was wasted on me.