The mist looks heavy as it lies in ribbons, string, and rope fragments, finding the valleys and dips in the early Midlands morning, like the thick, lazy, fat roots of the Plein trees that stand like sentinels around our little thatched cottage on the hillside. Some mist is like discarded bits, thrown down haphazardly, and some are like a continuous river winding through the landscape, morphing from ribbon to rope and everything in between. Fellow troops stand proudly on the roadways and fence lines over the terrain. Their stark spikey silhouettes poke above the mist and into the vast clear sky. Solid and structural, not camouflaged by growth with nowhere to hide. The trees fan out from a strong centre trunk into the unknown atmosphere. The deep red of the morning sunrise slowly dilutes as the sun rises higher into the African sky, ready to light the way ahead ….
Pink Farm Chick 