Morning Mists

We wake to another misty morning. Formless wisps soften our surroundings and it's difficult to be sure that the fog is real and not the retreating borders of dreamland. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes, and look out to the south, peering into the treetops as the ravine falls below. Ivory dogwood lace accents the gray canopy but it will all be a riot of green quite soon.

I rise, and shuffle down the hall, sit at my desk, and stare through the east-facing window, towards the rising sun, wondering who'll be bouncing around the woodpiles this early. Today, it's only the mists.

Woodpile peaceful, I swivel my chair to the north and check the hazy ridge for the herd - the whitetails - but the does are off hiding their newborn fawns and the bucks have disappeared to wherever it is that bucks disappear to. Actually, I should look more closely into the tall grasses. The Bambies are probably nestled there. For now, though, all's quiet above.

But it's early. And it's lovely. And it's home, here, in the quiet morning mists.

I wonder what I should have for breakfast.