“Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark.”
Sir Rabindranath Tagore
Fog does not come on little cat feet here. It rolls in across the land––rising from creekbeds and farm ponds. It makes ghosts of winter’s tree skeletons. It hides fences and gates. It muffles sound and turns the morning into a mystery.
It waits and when the sun rises bright in the east, it sips the fog away. Only a mist is left and it lifts and disappears leaving spider’s webs spangled like a rhinestone cowboy’s dress shirt. The webs are everywhere––in the ditches, strung from tree branches, on the barbed wire fences, and from my picnic table to a lawn chair.
I watch as I drive to town. Snippets of white are still sitting in the hollows, in the dips of the road, across the creekbed and hovering above ponds. They sit still and silent like little clouds that overslept and missed the bus.
It is a beautiful sight to see. Soon it is completely gone. It disappears and you can’t tell when you might to see such a marvelous thing again.
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