Olivia Marone, Fine Art America: Closest I could find to what I am trying to express. fineartamerica.com
Spilled over the linen hammock, wet and heavy with the day (and the Ebby-Annie in the dirt and grass beneath), I watched the cloud-thick-and-willowy mists move across the top of the great Potato Mountain and unfold, quickly and gracefully, down the western slope. I said a prayer that went something like: “Oh welcome and thank you oh powerful god (goddess?)…goddess? (hum…not quite…let’s start again: ) Welcome oh beautiful flow of … you … beautiful think/act/power of nature. Blessings. (hummmm. no quite. ok:) Aho! Thank you great and beautiful wonder (better…feels closer to good).” And so, I watched and witnessed this misty wonder swiftly move it’s way over the great Abe and down the western slope to the small town of Lincoln…and was…in awe. We watched the light. We watched the leaves in the trees—ironwood, birch, maple. We listened to and for the birds. We wondered about the owl.