On rare mornings a mist spills evenly across the land to soften the sun’s rays. On these mornings, the heavy dew would soak you to the waist if you wandered across that ungrazed pasture.
In the stillness, you hear the familiar sounds of birds twittering from hidden perches — meadowlarks, red-winged blackbirds, an indigo bunting. Cows moo in the distance. Someone’s dog barks, and another answers from somewhere along the treeline, announcing an important find. You’d investigate out of curiosity if you had time, permission to trespass, and a spare pair of clothes to change into after wading through the tall, wet grass.
Instead, you merely stop for a moment and breathe. Just breathe . . .look . . . listen . . . and savor this moment when a chance fog reveals what can’t be seen in clear sunlight. This country neighborhood seems different, exotic, and full of small mysteries. The shapes are familiar, but lack the distraction of details. You notice the shapes of rolling hills, of one line of trees after another, and you note the colors that fade with each measure of distance.
Soon enough the sun will burn away the mist, and this corner of the world will seem ordinary again.