A squall is crossing the hills in the distance. It trails a curtain of rain that softens the far ridge into mist, while a pale opening in the clouds sends down a faint glow.
In the foreground, the moor burns in slow colors: copper and rust and green. This is where rivers start, in the folds of wet ground, with a trickle that will gather and deepen. The water has no destination in view, but it moves as if it knows the way to the cliffs ahead.
