We went for a walk this morning, as we did the fog seemed to move in rather than burn off. There was a specific point in the walk where we stepped under the mantle cover of moistness. As we transitioned one half of the sky was a cloudless blue, the other a skyless grey. A lone bird here and there breaking the silence with its initial flapping of flight. Walking under the cover of fog it was as if we were entering a dream, or perhaps a black and white movie being played back in slow motion, an almost still world of another time.
There have been birds in increasing numbers here, flocks migrating across the skies, performing the magic of seemingly unified flight. The waves of group movement visible in the blue above, shimmering in ripples against the light, dancing across the sky if only for an extraordinary instant.
Here and there in the early morning we would happen upon what I believed to be a crane, or an occasional great blue in the distance, stalking the fields for unlucky sustenance.
Everywhere there was the quiet activity of survival, the evidence of life consuming life, ever pursuing continuance; there were the preparations for the coming day, the hushed lifting of the mist, the gentle rising of the sky, and glowing remains of the overnight industry of spiders in tandem.