It is white. Whiter than the curtains slung in the sky, whiter than the blanket of snow, whiter than the petals of daisies carpeting the doughy path. Within the valley, banks fill with the white soup,creating an opaque painting of the landscape. The surrounding atmosphere slips into a deep coma of slumber. A slumber so deep, even the rumble of stock trucks cannot stir a waking breath from the landscape. Baring his sharp teeth, the breeze eats away at the dying leaves still clinging to the branches. Following down the branch, leads to the teeming population of life, gathering supplies for a cold winter. Scrambling about, like a society in disaster.
Listen. Listen to the deep rumble of the blue velvet as it tumbles towards the edge. Down, down, down it tumbles, knotting itself into a distressed white knot. Droplets hiss at the slick grey boulders lying at the bottom, as if in repulsion. Birds sing their last song as they retreat into dark hollows of the tree. A tree, with one last sigh, bows to the sky. A tree that will sink into the soil and meet the needs of the younger sapling to thrive.
It is morning. The only light struggles to peek from beneath the heavy curtains. Morning breath of rotting leaves rolls through the valley settling in every nook. Beads of water cling to the lonely rabbit’s fur as it feeds on the last living shrub. The sinking sand is a battlefield for stragglers passing through. Morning is when little thrives. No animal wants to climb from within their warm burrow to face the harsh temperatures. No plant wakes to open their leaves, for the sky supplies no sunlight. Nothing and No one. No one dares to venture past the embrace of their bed.
Look. Look at the river frothing at the mouth. Look how it takes everything and everyone with little mercy. Look how the river steals the stream, pulling and twisting as if it were prey. The vein carves its way through the bare landscape.Stones struggle against the roll of the current, branches drown in the downward pull of the boulders while the white rapids blind the bottom from view. Any person to walk past would be oblivious to the storm beneath its smooth skin.
And soon you will feel the warmth of the sun stroking your cool cheeks. A valley no longer hides among the covers of the fog. Sunlight slips through the loosening grip of the fog. Fingertips of light trace gentle outlines tinting the scene in a soft orange. Dewdrops decorate the surrounding forest of pine, like a shop of chandeliers. Among these trees, birds appear to accompany the morning chorus. Plants reach towards the sun in praise and people open the curtains for another show of the day.