There’s a coolness hanging low in this air and her face hides behind a blur of gray. These mists have a language, a silent movement, present and past intertwined, both moving, source and echo. Their chatter, a cloak, conceals sky and edges of definition. Until I make it over her shoulder, a mountain pass. The mists let go and her silhouette interrupts the blue. Ground as dusty as summer, on the edge of dry pines, timberline only a touch away.