The other morning it was foggy. We get fog occasionally where I live. I grew up in Portland, Oregon where fog is much more common that the desert. It happens here when the conditions make it right: enough moisture and the temperature difference between the air and the damp ground.
It rained some the day before and during the night. A thunder storm rolled through the area with big flashes of lightening and rolling thunder. Harvey, our golden retriever who never sleeps with us, hopped up on the bed to burrow between my husband and myself. There he lay for several hours while the storm slowly moved across the neighborhood.
We got up just before dawn this morning and took a short walk. The dirt roads in our neighborhood were not too squishy but there were puddles everywhere. I could see the fog starting to form down low. Soon the trees and houses were only silhouettes against the slowly brighting sky. A few stars were still out, adding contrast to the monochromatic fog that was rapidly enveloping the lower world.
Fog, adding moisture to the air, makes things smell good and fresh. We are usually so dry that there is a pervasive dust aroma everywhere. Fog also changes how sound travels, muffling the noise, what little we have in those early morning hours. I love the muted colors and soft, fuzzy edges to the world.
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