carol strock wasson
Golden Light by carol strock wasson  Image: Then there are those hazy mornings, when the barns seem to drift in and out of view, wrapped in a soft veil of mist as the sun begins to burn through the haze. The air feels thick with silence, and everything slows.  It’s less about seeing and more about feeling—like the land is whispering something I don’t want to miss.
Then there are those hazy mornings, when the barns seem to drift in and out of view, wrapped in a soft veil of mist as the sun begins to burn through the haze. The air feels thick with silence, and everything slows. It’s less about seeing and more about feeling—like the land is whispering something I don’t want to miss.