The word "fog" doesn't do it justice.
Whisp sheets, like low-hanging spirit-clouds hovering just above the earth, a protective covering, the spirit hovering over the waters of chaos.
Dense walls encasing my present position in a diminished sightline of confinement.
As my daughter said when we pulled out of a dense cloud seemingly dropped down from the heavens onto the neighborhood and all was suddenly clear ahead: "It's piled up over there, too," as if the delivery man haphazardly dumped thirty tons of cotton balls in the neighboring field.
The fields, silent, cloaked in majestic white water in the air and white frozen water covering the ground and the crisp crunch of 5 degree briskness. The air is both crystal clear with white horizons and cloudy in bunches piled up over there and right here.
A farmer's barn, standing solemnly on pastoral meadows surrounded by gradual hills and billowed by a sheet here and a pile of cotton there and a plume of smoke from the farmhouse chimney and Michigan meadows conjure up Vermont landscapes.
"Fog" is simply no capable container or herald of this simultaneous weight and weightlessness of glory and beauty and serene silence, heavy with mystery and as light as the fading of my own ability to breath clouds on such a morning. The amber sunrise piques the hills, barely piercing the sheets as a glowing fireball throwing a subtle persimmon edging to the top of the morning quilt of glory-white.
I almost slept in and missed these whispers of divinity across the spring meadows of a passing winter. On this morning, old man winter doesn't fight the sweet spring, but instead they dance to the silent music of a divine serenade composed somewhere on the flipside of our reality.
God with us, whispers divinity, glory, and eminence as close as creation can with stealth silent strength. Fog - condensation from the whispered breath of God on a crisp morn. He speaks in faint murmurs prescient of a reality we long for but so easily overlook in haste and stress and distraction.
And now... as silently as she crept in, she disappears without a trace. The moment... gone. The whispers... silent. That feeling we can't articulate that we have been transported somewhere we know but have never been... fleeting. Yet encounter remains. He was here. He is here.
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