“It’s another misty morning,” I say to Jon when I wake at 5am and look out the window.
We are both thinking the same thing, the mist is good for photos. We talk a bit, hold each other, and I fall back to sleep.
It’s too easy, too comfortable, too sweet in bed. We mean to get up earlier, but when we do the mist is still there.
As if waiting for us.
Up close the mist is spiderwebs made visible. The mist is diamonds on the stem of Queen Anne’s Lace, and rain from the leaves on the trees.
By the time I head back to the farmhouse, the only mist is clouds wreathing, our neighbors, the mountains.
