The banks sat low and locked in; dense like my thoughts. Unmoving . . . like the impressive oaks they encased.
The drizzle was oddly reassuring. And the cold was not cold.
Surrounded by death, the leaves were almost mocking in their tremendous numbers. Too wet today to crunch; and, without that Autumn smell. The air,
still . . . but crisp.
The trees sang, as if praising the few leaves they held on to.
The river was biding with a force that only comes from wisdom. It rushed in one direction; never looking back. Always in the “now.”
And, as impressive as Mother Nature was on this day, all seemed meaningless in the midst of the Fog.
It did not roll. It did not move. It stayed and was subtly comforting. Like a warm glove. I smiled at its confidence. And, slightly, the Fog smiled back.
And winter did not creep. And summer did not weep. No thoughts to rise above, suddenly. Just the Fog. Strange, like a first time lover. Familiar, like an old friend.
I did not walk through it. Just stood there, silent. And the Fog and I enjoyed each others company.
And time stood still.