I know this is a poetic no-no (I’ve been told as such by real poets), but I just can’t help myself. Ross Macdonald‘s beautiful language makes me think of poetry, as noted below.

Chapter 4 (Opening Lines)
by Ross Macdonald

We rose into the offshore wind sweeping across the airport
and climbed toward the southern break in the mountains.
Santa Teresa was a colored air map on the mountains’ knees,
the sailboats in the harbor white soap chips in a tub of bluing.
The air was very clear.The peaks stood up so sharply
that they looked like papier-maché I could poke my finger through.
Then we rose past them into chillier air and saw
the wilderness of mountains stretching to the fifty-mile horizon.