Whispers like paper rustling. Footsteps, heard but never seen. They come out only when the air is thick with misted secrets. Swift, beside you, then away, they appear when they are hidden by nature’s blinds.
Droplets swirl with a grudging smoothness, disrupted as creatures dart, trailing soft brushes of wind that brush your skin. Shivers travel the length of your body as the air seeps under your jacket, creeping with gusty sighs along your skin. And you continue to walk, oblivious to the wonders that pass within feet of you.
And should you be so lucky to catch a glimpse, a shadow, a shade of the creatures that migrate under the safety of the fog, you are quick to dismiss it. Fear not, you tell yourself, it is a tree’s swinging branches, a stray dog, a winging bird. Nothing more. And you lock the door to your house with relief.
Above the fog the air is clear and the sun beams and the wind dreams. And every once in a while the edge of a wing, of a tail, of horns, breach the edges of the mist and glint in the revealing sun. They dive back down with a lingering trail, a wisp of their presence.
But you simply relax, knowing that it is the wind that moves the fog, that lifts it and swirls it and blows it in playful waves. You thank it for clearing your view as the fog trails away. And the wind laughs through your hair.
It was really foggy for a while. But always sunny further up. Gorgeous.