Fog

It came down solid this morning, smooth curls acquiring shape as they leaned over the cliff.  Nothing to do with little cat feet.  More like gray blind pythons nosing their way.  From the solid nest above, flicking tongues slid tenderly across the cliff, searching.  It was the omnipresent unseen made precisely visible, the exact edges of a temperature gradient flowing down to taste the topmost branches of a pine tree, resting there a moment, then moving on.
 
The sun rose murky over the mountain, like fresh snow against the sky. It was a broad dim glow, revealing nothing. 

I opened the window a bit to hear the river.  The chill came in.  It was good to be warm in bed with a modest sense of dread, watching white glow flow thickly through the trees. It was like the memory of a childhood not my own.  Like Hansel and Gretel.

I got up and turned the heater on.  By the time I opened the door, the river had vanished.  But you could feel it there, thick and real as muscles moving under a shirt. 

Am I going out in that?  Moisture beaded on the inside of the open door.  I thought about it. 

Then I did.