The smoke is gone, replaced by mists along the river. The mornings are darker and more mysterious.
early mists swirl around red-barked trees as white fingers of liquid cold rush over glistening stone beds. the woods are made small by fog, bound and softened, and the river god rises from the waters, a mist brooding, breaking watery bonds. in its presence, all is diminished and hushed. the rock spires and fallen trees, wet and touched by tendrils of damp smoke. delicate, inquisitive, the river god caresses and woos the somber woods.
Lovely. You sat me right down on a rock in the midst of this cold quiet space. Thank you. "... the woods are made small by fog, bound and softened..." Yes.
Love this. And the wild lands smelling the smoke blowing their way sigh with relief as mist shields them against the smothering heat. Saved for another year.