As the crow flies, it’s eight miles away and a mile up. Lit by the full moon, snowy peaks.. peek. Through a dark-clouded sky our blaring orb bounces off the mountaintops, who in turn glint through shades of shadow. The snowless faces below these frosted ridge lines remain hidden, drenched in nighttime. The alpine winks. Among the densities of cloud the range seems shy: showing there dimly, elsewhere not at all. Snow sparkled angles peek from their negligee of satin greys. The full moon persists above. Softly the sky whispers, of small and ancient glories.

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