Un-Titled

When all that is crass turns creative, and all that is bitter is made once again sweet, when the mountains rise up and say “No More” and the little birds, frightened, scatter like buckshot, only then will we see what we have done, and be honest enough to weep.

LBM 10/21/2020

photo mine, poetic license, gulls aren’t exactly ‘little’ birds but I like the shadow&light of it