The mist had burned off and the sun was painting the hills with the white light of dawn.

The sun was setting and had painted the sky a beautiful orange colour.

The sun was painting the sky with a lavish brush when I topped out on a rise in the trees and looked back.

The sun was shining in and painting a part of the opposite wall with pale gold.

The sun was low on the western horizon, painting the dying sky with the wild colors of a mad artist.

Watching the sun slowly climb above the horizon and paint the sea platinum was a special joy that never failed to bring him peace.

The sun touched at the horizon and painted the winter grasses with gold.

The sun rose over the hills in the east and painted the last shadows with brilliant light.

A sun with fixed rays from it, painted on something-and a thing to be hated!

I squatted down like he did and watched the sun paint the sky as it slowly turned into Saturday.