One misty morning It's a foggy morning. We get those a lot here. I love them. They are my favourite thing about this place. There's something about fog in the morning that makes me think of times long past. The phrase "The mists of time" is so appropriate. While walking down the pedestrian path, through the woods, the fog closed in on either end and I was envelopped in a thick blanket. The little birds were flitting to and fro in front of me, bathing, I think, in the moist air. Looking out into the trees the mist was everywhere but in the lower, wetter, places it was thicker, hinting dark and mysterious, set apart from the urban environment. There, I'm sure, the sound of road noise would fade away and time would step backwards to before the giant cedar trees were harvested and the forest spirits had fled. Further down the path I noticed that a spot on the ground seemed to be glowing, as if the sun had broken through. I looked into the sky for the light source and noticed that the tree beside the path also seemed to be glowing. For a moment that one particular spot on the path seemed magically illuminated until I realized that the leaves on that tree had turned a brilliant yellow while all other trees nearby were dark red. It was the colour contrast of those yellow leaves on the tree and path to the dark red all around them that deceived the eye. I wish I had had a camera! Of course, the magic of the fog is a fleeting thing, and when I emerged at the bottom of the hill the traffic sounds again surged to the front of my awareness. Still, it was a nice way to start the day. |