A Mighty fog blankets the Oachita and the Sun is reduced to a pale ghost And I slow down to take in this ethereal landscape. The trees expire, and I see their spirits dance above the thick grass leaving carpets of mist above clearings, lingering like a lover's kiss from the night before
The trees are shorter now compared to the trees in the midwest No dancing hawks like in the Smokies, or perhaps it's too early and wet for them (it must be 7am)
Backroads while the most scenic, can also be the most frustrating It's now daylight and morning traffic has slowed to a crawl. Enough is enough, I decide to cross the double yellow line to overtake the slowpokes in front of me Only to find myself in the world's stupidest game of chicken, a bike vs a truck. To be fair though, every game of chicken is the world's stupidest game of chicken.
And the horizon swallows the Sun like he were nothing more than the pit of a fruit And belches a cloud of fire and vapor until all that remains of the once mighty lord Is a pink smear In the canvas of the sky
"…You can't miss what you ain't had Well I can I'm sad and there will be tears I've no doubt There may be smiles But a few…" - Frank Ocean, There will be tears
I have put some serious miles on the road and otherwise at this point. And I have to say that the morning sky is the morning sky everywhere and is always beautiful