white oak

On the road, old volcanoes on either side above the scrub and sage, and their profiles recall Vífilsfell, Úlfarsfell, the ridges of Reykjanes. Here too, stuðlaberg, basalt breaking in columns into the sandy dirt. But the sun is much brighter here, almost bright enough to burn off the shadows of those other, distant, lichen-covered mountains. Flying out, you can see the outlines of eruptions and earth stained with iron and magnesium, red and purple.