Something is A Mist

Each morning seems to bring ever-thicker mist, until this morning all was blanketed with fog so dense you could barely see the dog on the lawn. 

Things are different when the air is clogged with water vapor. The other night, just before the moon was full, I paused a moment on the stair landing to look out the window there. It was just beyond midnight, right after the witching hour, deep into the time of spooks and owls and strangeness.

The night's mist was just falling, here and there a faint cloud with rounded edges drifting down between the buildings and blanketing the trees.

 With the light of the moon shining down upon it, it was as if the air was full of silver glitter.

I was struck with awe and stunned to stillness there in the middle of the stairway. How do you store such treasure?

I often think of Kenny in My Friend Flicka when I pause on that stairway to look out the magic window. He often found himself in trouble for lingering on the stair landing daydreaming..... and I spend more time than I should....every single time, up or down...... looking out at sunset or moonset or mistrise or early-birdtime. 

Or at snow piling up around the buildings and shrouding weathered boards and rusty tin roofs in pretty Christmas wrapping, hiding the defects, redrawing it all, postcard pretty.

 I hate it when we have to cover it with plastic once it gets really cold and the winds get to howling.

Meanwhile, as fall moves along toward those painful days.....

Each morning I go out into the mist before the sun is all the way up to walk the dogs and count the morning glories and listen to the Carolina Wren proclaiming ownership of all surveyed.

This morning there was mystery barking until I finally went out again to see what was what, only to come face-to-face with a monstrous-huge grey squirrel striding over to the house.

Yowsa, he's a big 'un!

And then the mist burns off, the day moves on, and it is as if it never happened until midnight comes again.