the white stones shifting beneath my feet, this wind. this rain, the way the steely sky trickles down to kiss the sea, the indistinct rumors / hints / echoes of mountains where the mist has slept with the trees.
the cliffs whisper to me of their endless journey to the horizon, and captured in this fragrant brushstroke of balsam and pine I feel the damp northwest morning soak into my skin, and suddenly there is an itching of feathers and salt in my veins.
for a second, I bite into the marine chaos of these dancing whitecaps, and it is just as you promised.
the drive up to whistler is absolutely breathtaking // falling hopelessly in love with the pacific northwest