Dusk. Black etched trees, silhouettes against a grey striped sky. The racing wind collects leaves from dancing limbs, whistling as it passes. Pushing the fence with insistant nudges, the old wood creaks and moans but holds its ground - the wind moves on.
"No matter how the wind howls, the mountain cannot bow to it" - Anon
Thank you very much for visiting
all writing copyright - My Name is ZING - 2009
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1 comment:
Lovely image, so evocative...I am there with you.
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