The beaver pond is still and smooth, the gnarled cedars along the farther shore nebulous and cloaked in drifting fog that swirls as though stirred by a vast, benign and blessing hand.
Earth and water are warmer than the air this morning, and the serendipity coming together of the three elements spins a pearly veil over everything in sight. Sunlight or autumn rain - either will disperse the fog, but there is heavy rain in the cards for this day, and most likely it will be rain that lifts the veil.
In what seems like only a few breaths, the countryside has morphed into its early winter configuration, trees bare and somewhat mournful on their slopes, fallen leaves ankle deep in the woods and stark windblown fields arrayed in grey and taupe. The hawthorn by the pond has lost its leaves entirely and wears only a few frost touched berries.
Just out of sight is the artist in her wellies and oilskins, carrying (as usual) cameras, lenses and filters, brush, pen and field notebook. Entranced as she is by the magical ambiance at this early hour, she is thinking that it would be even more so with a single beam of sunlight coming through the trees beyond the pond and shining through the fog to generate voluminous shadows in three fey dimensions.
She was a feeling a little lost when she got here, and in truth, she is still feeling lost, but paradoxically, she is also home.