Rain and Drifting Fog

One of those drifting nebulous autumn mornings when the village is cloaked and mysterious... I almost typed "early autumn" in the preceding sentence, but autumn is properly upon us, and she is comfortable in her tenure.

It is raining. Fog swirls around everything in billowing waves, draping trees like a veil, smoothing hard edges and rounding the contours of house and street. Out of the pearly gray comes a sound now and again: rain on the roof of the little blue house, village doors opening and closing as sleepy residents collect their newspapers, the muffled purring of autos, an early commuter detouring through the park, children walking to school, a caroling bird in the hedgerow, the whistle of a faraway train that is usually only a faint echoing in the air.

On such mornings, the world seems to go on forever and to be filled with a luminous floating Zen possibility. Part of me is curled up and engaged in a morning breathing meditation, counting my slow breaths in and out. Other parts are drifting along with the fog and happy to be doing so.