What struck me was the pattern of weathering on some of the stones.
The light areas appeared as though the inhabitants were rising up to join the mist.
Once, while visiting 1700s kin, with my gramma, I did what was I told never to do...I stepped on a grave.
The soil gave way and I was knee-deep in someone.
Never stepped on another grave, again.
That is the same cemetery that a distant cousin, back in the 30s, set down his rifle to climb a fence and accidentally shot himself.
He laid there in that remote and terrifying place, all night and bled out.
That was back when we still had a Mc in front of the family name.
Wow.
Just wow.