the colors change to golden brown.
Scrub grass and black trees
like ribs against a slate grey sky.
A swirl of snow, drifting with time
as white clouds pile like distant hills,
and the gathering storm turns into purple dusk.
Now the wind and the pines close in.
I grip the wheel, and the road and the sky
and the trees are all a soft cloud white,
And we come at last
to the edge of the sky, to drop like stones
into the inland sea.
Deep thinker, Problem solver, Illustrator, Photographer, Cyclist, Literature buff, Anthropology nerd, and Science fiction geek.