I awake today, as I usually do here, to a morning mist so thick and gentle, a scrim that sucks out the spectrum behind it and reduces it to soft layers of gray.
I make my coffee and read for a bit then turn my attention to the awakening before me.
And in the few minutes that it has taken to write this, the thin ribbon of mist that bisected the Inverness ridge has dissipated into small white puffs and poofed into nothingness.
I bring my pressed coffee and my bits of buttered crusts soaked in blackberry jam, made from my bucket of roadside fruit a few weeks before, outside. Hundreds of blackbirds are feasting in the pasture. They clump around a patch of dead thistles. Something disturbs them and they ignite into an airborne dance, their red epaulets unfurling.
Last night’s harvest moon, lingering over the ridge, now just a wisp, watches, too.
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