The fog swirls around everything in billowing waves, smoothing hard edges and rounding the contours of house and street. Out of the pearly gray comes a sound now and again, village doors opening and closing as sleepy residents collect their newspapers, the muffled purring of autos, an early commuter detouring through the park, a caroling bird, the whistle of a faraway train that is usually only a faint echoing in the air.
On such mornings, the world seems a magical place, going on and on forever and filled with luminous possibility.
3 comments:
Lovely description.
Reading your words - You transport me to your world.
What a beautiful photograph with its fog and eery lines of steel. :)
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