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Exodus

Sunset, The Sierras, California. You hung over the range all afternoon, and occasionally tendrils of rain showed against the dark mountains, a mist that never made it to the ground down here. An hour or so before sunset, I set off on a ride down the dirt roads in the Alabama Hills, a jumbled rock garden that lays beneath Mount Whitney and the Eastern Sierra. The sun dropped uneventfully behind the cloak of your overcast, it's passing unnoticed until, almost suddenly, you broke apart into individual formations and lifted in a mass escape away from the rock. I had hoped you would stay, and warm the cold granite under a sunset blanket. I watched while you scattered, maybe in response to someone else's ode to a cloud. After a time, your flight was highlighted when the sun, as it must, dropped below the earth's horizon. Pieces of you glowed in exodus, and I wondered, why did you go?

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Exodus
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©Ray Palmer no usage without written permissions
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Sunset, The Sierras, California. You hung over the range all afternoon, and occasionally tendrils of rain showed against the dark mountains, a mist that never made it to the ground down here. An hour or so before sunset, I set off on a ride down the dirt roads in the Alabama Hills, a jumbled rock garden that lays beneath Mount Whitney and the Eastern Sierra. The sun dropped uneventfully behind the cloak of your overcast, it's passing unnoticed until, almost suddenly, you broke apart into individual formations and lifted in a mass escape away from the rock. I had hoped you would stay, and warm the cold granite under a sunset blanket. I watched while you scattered, maybe in response to someone else's ode to a cloud. After a time, your flight was highlighted when the sun, as it must, dropped below the earth's horizon. Pieces of you glowed in exodus, and I wondered, why did you go?
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