I’ve gone into the back catalog for my poem today, but the photos are fresh from this afternoon. We glimpsed spectacular cloud hanging over the mountains as we drove home, so I pulled the phone/camera out of my pocket and shot through the rainy windscreen.
Little, old mountains,
Ancient bones of an ancient land
Lie sprawled across the boundary of the plains;
Jagged and crumbling peaks
Are cloaked in vegetation
Scarcely younger than the rocks themselves.
The ancient crone
Hugs secrets to her breast.