You know what Boston drivers think about a yellow light: it means “Gun it.”
I’ve fairly recently rambled about the color yellow and its variations in tone and mood, from pale tea-dyed hues to the impossibly saturated Tweety Bird.
Yellow light has a special, sparkling space in winter. It nullifies the night by streaming, sometimes with a misty halo, from lanterns along cobblestone and brick streets. It curls around the morning’s steel blue clouds and peeks from behind snowy branchs. It makes a lone stranded lobster trap stand out in a sea of sepia sea grass. It carves a path through denuded branches, contouring them with gold. It blazes in afternoon’s last blast of sun, transforming forlorn sheets of muddy mustard seaweed into glittering ornaments along the rocky shore.
In winter, yellow no longer seems to be a call to speed up, pedal to the metal.
Slow down, savor the light.