Not a soul in sight. Just the wind and mist in a whispered hush making their way across the world. The chill of water in the morning air stands in place, as though no longer able to keep the relentless march of clouds.
The trees have given way since ages passed to clearings. Clearings made not by the hand of man but by accord of wood and plain, an accord that never was spoken but only ever was.
The rocks lay here at witness to the ages gone and forgotten, but here it seems as so peaceful. I would surprise me little to hear from those rocks that the only stories of note would be when stars rushed across the sky.
The highlands see few visitors, and fewer still who choose to stay. But in listening to the winds whispers, perhaps I will be one of those few. And together we will watch the sky turn bright and dark before the dawn.
And all along the clouds will pass on by, to bring rain or colour the sky. But all along as they do in their way, they will not be tainted by what happens below. The clouds care not for the wistful world below, and so they stay so pure.
A prompt response.