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Morning Mist
twitch sigil
The mists that rise in the Fraser Valley in the mornings are amazing. They seep and flow through hills and copses of trees like a sluggish river through an ancient delta.

There was a fenced yard, possibly for grazing horses, overflowing with fog. All around it was clear air, yet the fence corralled within it a mass of flowing, gently billowing fog as if a voluminous creature were shackled by the posts and planks.

Driving down the highway I passed a berry field. A thin layer of whispy mist was suspended above the field about the height of a person, like a pane of smoky glass atop invisible pillars. The highway and my car carried me at such a height that I looked at that pane of water droplets edge-on, increasing the impression.

Earlier, minutes after six o'clock as I took out the previous day and night's garbage at work, I looked out at the pre-dawn sky and across the field of the airport. The layer of thick fog blanketing the runway field lay on it like a sea of cloud, and I could imagine the planes as ships sailing on that sea, and then suddenly breaking free of the vapourous waves and launching themselves into another ocean.

Which leads to my next entry...


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