Fall Season, a time of passing fancy, of embellished schemes across the land. And here the days pass in shortened bursts, celebrating in festive notes. Even the black gnats, lusting for my blood, feel the coolness settling in. We share the same quickening on this early September afternoon. So the chill wanders through the air, making appetites numb in the sinking of the sun. But still, when looking through the black Spruce fields, down the slopes of shrubs, ringed by yellow sedge, I see the glory shining in the blue lake mirrors. Further out, deeper within shadowed folds, a silver stream murmurs in relief from the heat now gone. Half way in, half way done, along this 40 miles of road, softly plumed by dust, the comings and goings of time are known. On the sides of the valley, the foothills climb to the spired tops of weathered rock, of dark castled walls. And rising even higher, the Wrangel-St. Elias towers steep and still, closer to the sun and glorying longer in its light, exists in a realm few of us will ever know. A moment here contains the world and the fire that burns inside--a season of myself and the road beyond.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Nebesna Road
Fall Season, a time of passing fancy, of embellished schemes across the land. And here the days pass in shortened bursts, celebrating in festive notes. Even the black gnats, lusting for my blood, feel the coolness settling in. We share the same quickening on this early September afternoon. So the chill wanders through the air, making appetites numb in the sinking of the sun. But still, when looking through the black Spruce fields, down the slopes of shrubs, ringed by yellow sedge, I see the glory shining in the blue lake mirrors. Further out, deeper within shadowed folds, a silver stream murmurs in relief from the heat now gone. Half way in, half way done, along this 40 miles of road, softly plumed by dust, the comings and goings of time are known. On the sides of the valley, the foothills climb to the spired tops of weathered rock, of dark castled walls. And rising even higher, the Wrangel-St. Elias towers steep and still, closer to the sun and glorying longer in its light, exists in a realm few of us will ever know. A moment here contains the world and the fire that burns inside--a season of myself and the road beyond.
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Very cool. The picture seems like you've photoshopped it a bit. Almost like a painting.
ReplyDeleteYep...another way of expressing myself; not being limited by realism, but being able to explore other possibilities. In fact, once winter shuts things down here, I'd like to make some large Oil paintings from these excursions into Photoshop.
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