smoky mountains

blue ridge.

fog­gy ten­drils reach down from the white­ness of moth­er sky in a soft-edged, yet bold attempt to take over the foamy land­scape below.

their dance is a sog­gy affair, met by the strong and leafy arms of trees crown­ing green cot­ton can­dy moun­tain­tops.

ridges and out­crop­pings scram­ble for def­i­n­i­tion as hollers fill with misty lakes of almost water.

begin­nings and end­ings cross paths in the swirling wet­ness, and drop pale drapes down to pud­dle and spread along the for­est floor.

every attempt at bold col­or falls vic­tim to filmy shad­ows and indis­tinct out­lines. this is an easy palate, built for soft­ness.

some­where there is almost change, but then what pass­es at first for smoke from some fal­ter­ing fire, fades into the land­scape.

there is no heat, nor dry­ness here. this is a world of wet­ness, near com­plete, with cold as its hand­maid­en.