The Ridge That Watches
The trees stand like sentinels, silent, skeletal, and unmoved. Beyond them, the mountains rise in shadow, cloaked in mist and memory. The sky is thick with cloud, but it’s not the weather that weighs heavy, it’s the presence. Light barely filters through, casting no warmth, only warning. This is not a trail. It’s a threshold. The kind of place where names are forgotten and footsteps echo longer than they should. The forest doesn’t speak. It listens. And the ridge, distant and dark, watches without blinking.
My latest photography is now available for purchase at crsimages.pixels.com/, featuring prints, framed art, and more from my curated collections.
The Ridge That Watches
The trees stand like sentinels, silent, skeletal, and unmoved. Beyond them, the mountains rise in shadow, cloaked in mist and memory. The sky is thick with cloud, but it’s not the weather that weighs heavy, it’s the presence. Light barely filters through, casting no warmth, only warning. This is not a trail. It’s a threshold. The kind of place where names are forgotten and footsteps echo longer than they should. The forest doesn’t speak. It listens. And the ridge, distant and dark, watches without blinking.
My latest photography is now available for purchase at crsimages.pixels.com/, featuring prints, framed art, and more from my curated collections.