Taking the Sky Road Home

Only in September and October do sunsets like this come along, ground mist creeping through fields and around trees, light and sky and clouds like something out of a Maxfield Parrish painting. The clouds look like trails one could walk along, and they remind me of the title I gave to a photo a few years ago, "Taking the Sky Road Home".

Fog and ground mist are common entities at sunrise and nightfall here in autumn, clouds of condensed moisture generated by the earth's slow breathing and drifting along above the surface. Humans are cloud-breathing dragons - we generate our own mists and fogs as we take air into our lungs and expel it again; trees and forests breathe in and out too. As above so below, sky, humans, trees and the earth all breathing in and out together, the rosy streaks in the sky above our heads kin to the nebulous veil floating below. 

We call visible murky stuff "fog" when it reduces visibility to less than 1,000 metres, and we call it "mist" when we can see further than 1,000 meters through it. One can just make out farm buildings way in the distance in the second photo, so this is mist rather than fog, and a right fine mist it is, all gauzy and ethereal and slightly spooky.

We might be anywhere in the world, but we (Beau and I) are leaning against an old rail fence in the eastern Ontario highlands on a cool night in late September. My collar is turned up against the wind, and we watch as another day fades. I take photo after photo, hoping just one or two turn out. The clouds, the setting sun and the veils of gossamer condensation floating above the earth are beyond words, so why am I trying to describe them in an utterly graceless and oh-so-inadequate net of words?

The sun slides below the horizon, another autumn day folds up like an umbrella, and the stars come out. A brief interval this, but perfect in every way.