The natural flow of a precipice jutting into the wind, friction ridges in waves of smooth hills—greenery rolling over the rocks and erosion. Timber clings to the cliffs, wood veins entrenched in the earth where time splits eons survived and impending inches moved. —It's quiet. The peaceful song of bird and cicada raptures stillness undisturbed by the breeze. Leaves twist, each fold irreversible as morning slips to heat, tectonic in the buildup—gravity gives away.
(Photo taken by our friend Cory in 2016.)