Winter. Winds howl, close to blizzard, though no fresh snow. Ground shifts, swirls in patterns, writhing snakes. Roads disappear in white scales, slither into fields. Over buried stubble, the sun sets. And the world burns, violet and orange.
White fields, white sky. Even the memory of blue sky fades before this landscape.
If on a prairie winter afternoon, you dropped into this vast expanse of light, could you find the horizon? Find your way home through white air, glare?