Milk of morning mist flows slowly
among the sandstone cliffs,
nourishing them in silence.
Morning slows,
and the mist loses form,
fading like a gentle memory.
In winter the milk flows freely
as liquid ambers lose their
leaves.
Roads disappear beneath its
shroud.
Mist’s heavy sibling, fog,
arrives.
Come evening and the shadows climb
escarpments as they fall asleep.
The traveller's journey starts
with mother's milk
scales the valley's walls in youthful strength
and ends in rest at dusk
in long and deep ravines.
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