Peach

In the nearby park again with my son, on the way home from one of our daily (the darkening evenings suggest nightly) cycle runs to the playground. I love the way the sky goes through its last shades, the blue quickly intensifying to pink, orange, then pale peach. A pruned tree cast its neural net, holding a football and (if I blinked) a passing plane.

Earlier, on the way back from school, we'd had a conversation about skin colour.
'Are we black?'
'What do you think?'
'No.'
'Right.'
I explained how some could get very sensitive if they were asked about their skin colour, that others were actually ignorant enough to hate people according to skin tone (we had talked about racism before, of course). So, what colour did he think we were?
'Peach.'
'Very good!'

In fact, peach perfect.