The tips of the mountains awakened by the sun. Only visible after the wind has pushed the blanket of dull, unfriendly clouds away. Mother Nature has decided her beauty is only for those who are patient in their search of the early morning sky.
Moments in time seem like hours waiting for the simmering palette to play among the rocks and dusting of snow. Slowly, the vision is there, and the eyes take but seconds to comprehend the massive loneliness before them.
The wind speaks through their rocky crevices. Moaning. Whispering. They bare their soul. Each tells a story. Each named to reflect a memory or a place in time. Always beckoning. Bating the appetite for more.
Moments in time seem like hours waiting for the simmering palette to play among the rocks and dusting of snow. Slowly, the vision is there, and the eyes take but seconds to comprehend the massive loneliness before them.
The wind speaks through their rocky crevices. Moaning. Whispering. They bare their soul. Each tells a story. Each named to reflect a memory or a place in time. Always beckoning. Bating the appetite for more.
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