The beaver pond is still, reeds and cedars along the far shore cloaked in drifting fog that billows and swirls as though stirred by a vast, benign and blessing hand. Earth and water are warmer than the air, and the meeting of the three elements spins a pearly veil over everything in sight. Sunlight or autumn rain - either will disperse the fog, but there is rain in the cards for today, and it will most likely be rain that lifts the veil.
In a few deep breaths, the countryside has morphed into its early winter configuration, trees bare on their slopes, fallen leaves ankle deep in the woods and windblown fields arrayed in grey and taupe. Down by the pond, the hawthorn has lost its leaves entirely and wears only a few frost touched berries.
Just out of sight is the scribe in wellies and oilskins, carrying camera, lenses, pen and field notebook. Caught up in the fey ambiance, she thinks it would be even more magical with a single beam of sunlight coming through the trees beyond the pond and shining through the fog to generate voluminous shadows in three dimensions. She was feeling rather lost when she got here, and in truth, she is still feeling a little lost, but paradoxically, she is also feeling at home.