The city drifts in a screening milky fog. It’s hub and bub melt in a dreary distance. Years toiled away upon a treadmill. The downsizing of America. Careers drift in swirling dark currents, the mass under the surface.
A last supper, a picnic on the bluff. Change is certain, our future isn’t. The horizon is a full palette of grays. Of rights and wrongs, the moment neither rewards nor scolds. To share, to hold in heart, peace in mind. Like the slipstream of flotsam, one life journeys, yet the tides carry on long past, bearing the weight of each passage.
Photo prompt by The Heart of Writing.