Turning on my brights, descending down the Shins road, this light only accentuates an eerie twilight splendor. Another world we've entered here, shadow shapes in charcoal replace what daytime placed before - robust pines are hefty arrowheads, rolling hills are timeless, cresting waves, milky moonlight falls over a maple explosion, captured and frozen in a moment of firework display, and houses pleasant during sunlight droop into witch hovels, strobed in the lightning of my headlights. It is a spectacularly fae land, celtic and mysterious, that bowls this gentle valley of home. Mists burbling over the hilltops and sliding over bald peak are a breath caress against the window of night. I've never, may never, know such love.
Crawling, creeping, clawing, time comes with clandestine fervor, covert against the clamor of daily motion. Stop and breathe, please, or in brief steps, breathe in this living day, love this beautiful clay of people. An extravagance, then, this life. The first great grey in a season-wide eternity of such. Gun-metal skies swallowing this year, and crying tears mourning the lost clothing of trees.
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