Fog drips across the hills. A few dark shadows soar over the lake, while a small boat zooms over the waves. The wake is like a silver streamer that slowly disappears into infinity.
Near the city of Three Rivers, the highway wraps itself around the mountain like a lasso. It winds through cut mountainsides, and moves over elaborate vistas of cottonwood trees and long plains of uncut, smooth emerald grass. The hills are bunched up, scrunched together Scottish-like, heads trying to peer over the harsh valleys of the Sierra Nevadas, to take a longing glimpse at the hidden Sequoia trees, put away in their tiny little valley in the heavens.
I drive along, stopping here and there, snapping pictures. I pull off to the side of the road, the gravel rumbling under the tires, row down the window, receive a face full of dripping rain, and snap my picture. There is a small farm squatting on the hill, and an RV parked down the road. I aim my camera upwards, taking a horizontal picture of the hills and smoky clouds.
Near the city of Three Rivers, the highway wraps itself around the mountain like a lasso. It winds through cut mountainsides, and moves over elaborate vistas of cottonwood trees and long plains of uncut, smooth emerald grass. The hills are bunched up, scrunched together Scottish-like, heads trying to peer over the harsh valleys of the Sierra Nevadas, to take a longing glimpse at the hidden Sequoia trees, put away in their tiny little valley in the heavens.
I drive along, stopping here and there, snapping pictures. I pull off to the side of the road, the gravel rumbling under the tires, row down the window, receive a face full of dripping rain, and snap my picture. There is a small farm squatting on the hill, and an RV parked down the road. I aim my camera upwards, taking a horizontal picture of the hills and smoky clouds.
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