His eyes were blue. Not the ordinary sky blue, or the colour of the paint flaking off of the old shed in the back of the field, or even the tiny flowers that spring up by the side of the road. His eyes were blue like the sea, crystal clear blue - shimmering and crashing and churning. Looking into his eyes you could hear the waves falling against the shore, see the foam flying into the air. His eyes were blue like the sky right before the sun disappears- dark rich indigo. His eyes were blue like that warm wool sweater that you put on when the air gets that chill - comfortable, warm, familiar. His eyes were that kind of blue. Like this beautiful butterfly, he was part of nature, too.