Foggy Morning

One of those wonderful nebulous early autumn mornings when the village is cloaked and mysterious.

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.