Into the Mist

Spring brings a lot of changes in the weather, and one of the most intriguing is the fog.  Many mornings, we wake up to low hanging clouds that envelope the village.  They rest eerily right in front of us, distorting our view across the square or completely blocking out the mountains that face us.  Colors stops at the end of the terrace, ten feet in front of us, where the world plummets into a hazy gray.

Then, the morning mist slowly starts to burn away.  The sun fights to make its way through, sometimes it wins, other times it doesn’t.  The haze lifts, hovering on the mountain crest, revealing the lower ridges emerging with spring’s green growth.  By midday, the fog has passed; blue skies appear and colors burst with spring’s eternal promise.

Other times, the fog stays.  Clouds rise and fall like the ebb and flow of the ocean.  Moving quickly, the clouds rush in swallowing up all the color and light, only to give way again letting a burst on sunshine make its way through temporarily.  The clouds retaliate and move in with a surge of energy that gives the notion that it is a living creature fighting for its life.  It mutes out the hues and blankets the landscape again with its wispy forms.  This ballet lasts all day long, finally only giving in to the waning light of the approaching night.

 

The fog casts a foreboding air wherever it hangs; but in an ancient village, where thousands of lives once toiled to create the stone facades I now see, it adds an almost wicked dimension.  As if around any corner a phantom of a deceased inhabitant is shrouded in the mist, watching.  The stories are numerous, and the fog gives birth to ghost stories and haunting to an active imagination.