Dismal clouds shrouded winter mountaintops. Cloaks of despair, they wept, their sorrow drenching the landscape. Parched souls, clinging to life, found solace in the mother’s healing tears.
Breathless, I waited.
Brown became gold as nomad tinkers arrived. Singing children frolicked. Their laughter summoned sunshine, and magical colors transformed the valley. Continually moving, they were always at home. Their work complete, they disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving hope behind.
__________________________________________
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer