A blanket on the shore
You could see it.
Late in the afternoon.
Just offshore amongst the islands. It was a dark ominous wall. Dark ominous and stretching to the sky. The fog bank hung there waiting.
After supper it enveloped the headlands, making its way up the fingered inlets of the coast.
The starry night gave way to mist.
The damp chill held us closer to the campfire and each other.
By midnight, you could see patches of stars and wispy clouds, billowing above the lake and below us.
Coastal fog possesses a gentle beauty.
Everything seems soft, dappled, familiar while obscure. I
t's as though we're living in a Monet, or some other outrageous 19th century impressionist this morning. As I write this. The lake is invisible. The trees, blurry.
Yeah, they know somewhere above it all, the sun is working its magic to burn this all off. Though I delight in the blue sky, unobscured by clouds, the soft cool magic of a foggy morning never gets old.
This transcript was generated by https://otter.ai
Edited by moi
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