The fog is so thick, that it is all I see, the air so misty that when I breath, I inhale the cold and bracing droplets of condensation. And today, I am dressed in grey, grey tights, shades of grey skirt, grey cashmere sweater, grey silk scarf and over top it all a grey paneled wrap with a slash of pink. if it were not for the pink, I would disappear into the air like the Cheshire cat fading away.
This landlocked girl likes the fog, imaging I am at sea, sitting on a large rock staring out at the fog rolling in, becoming one with the salt, returning to a language that i never knew and yet somehow remember. And the weight of it feels comforting, like a thick blanket waiting for me drift away.
The fog demands slowness and hot chocolate and something comforting baking in the oven, it screams out for slumber and thick white blankets of the softest order as the darkness curls around her misty tendrils. The fog reminds me to slow down, to relax into the season, to sit with the stillness and to enjoy the comforts of this time of the year.
And she, the crow flies up and perches on the black spikes and it all feels very medieval as I look out my window while typing on modern technologies. And I time travel, eyes droopy, thoughts wandering as grey tendrils whisper backwards.