It's a natural state of affairs for an old hen like myself, but today my sconce seems as foggy as the front field on a fine September morning before the sun begins its work, and the day is revealed in all its windswept glory.
I find myself thinking of two books this morning, and fog (or mist) had a starring role in each. The first is a children's novel by the late Julia Sauer called "Fog Magic" which I read as a child many years ago. The second novel is Pat Murphy's magnificent tale of plague, redemption and magic in an alternate San Francisco called, "The City Not Long After". I recommend both books heartily and shall probably go hunting for my own copies a little later in the day.
Delight in these September morning mists is something which seems to have been with me forever, and so is the lovely nebulous state of wonder which attends such softly amorphous intervals.
I look into the swirling silken skirts of the fog as it drapes itself around chimneys, hillsides, rocks and trees, and I find myself somewhere else entirely and in need of no words at all. It's quite enough to just be here. Autumn fogs are a truly bewitching and very Zen thing.
2 comments:
If was a little foggy here in the city the other morning, which I love. The fog softened all the cities sharp edges and mutes the noise.
I love the morning fog this time of year too. It's so heavy the grass stays wet for hours after sunup. It's a magical part of my early morning walks.
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