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

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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