the fog

The sun didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. Still sleepy, she shuffled slowly and robed herself in wispy gray. She rose, but only reluctantly, without her customary brilliance, as if the choice to remain resting were a viable option. You could almost look her full in the face. Dawn was more human than divine, her edge less sharp, her tone pale.

I opened the blind and a cluster of leaves growing on the window sill greeted me. Bright red, they reached out like so many warm hands to shake mine.

Outside, the air was damp and chilly, like an iced sauna. The fog clung to my skin, the grass, this street, those houses. Like a large spirit you know is always there but don’t normally see, he made his presence known this morning to hush the world’s loudness.

This morning’s walk consisted of discovery. Like exploring an abandoned mansion, there was always one more dark room to enter. The fog is mystery’s brother. You see things less clearly, which makes the journey more intriguing. Makes you tread more carefully. Makes you want to touch that Tree up ahead, just to verify that it is, indeed, actually there.