These heavy clouds with moisture pent,
Did snag on jagged peaks and rent.
But once their snowy burden spent,
The darkness cleared, magnificent.
I looked west, warm in a down jacket, and raised my camera. The beauty of these hills is something spiritual, and nothing sets off that splendor more than morning sun and a fresh blanket of snow. A posy at the altar.
Each morning, during my pre-dawn drive into Bishop for coffee, I’m distracted (pleasantly) by a broken stream of lone and scattered ravens flying low, overhead, out of the northeast. If you watch for them, they appear suddenly like slow moving, black shooting stars out of the awakening sky. Purpose is apparent in their flight. They’re familiar to me now, like friends passing on the street. I nod and grin, leaning over the wheel to get a last glimpse before they disappear overhead. The scientist in me wonders where their headed and why. Maybe their just heading towards the beauty of those hills.
Good stuff, SF. Good stuff.