Up here, the countryside looks like one of his mom’s older patchwork quilts –– wheat browns and tans, dark forests and rich kelly greens, all sewn up with dusty threads of roads. Little moving flecks of vehicles and livestock, rugged little farmhouses and barns.
There’s a greyish haze over it all, the thin morning clouds holding back some sun. Clark doesn’t mind; his brilliant blues can see right though it, effortlessly.
Up here, the City’s rural outskirts aren’t a far cry from Smallville’s earlier days.
And, he thinks, it couldn’t be more beautiful.