On this cold, wet November day, the fog lay heavy down along the hollers. Up high, where he stood, the mists were thin, lightly veiling the ridgetops and muting even further the sepia tones of the mountains in early winter. In this dreamscape, the thin, faint sound of a flute gradually penetrated his awareness.

Bee-yew-tee-full descriptions!! Gives me the shivers. Well done, please don't leave us hanging for too long...:-)