The clouds have once again settled onto the ridge, and the trees are like their own vague shadows. Stephen King would have something dangerous lurking out there, waiting to emerge with unspeakable terror. I always expect something to come from the fog, too, but, with my usual contrariousness, I expect it to be something delightful. I always find fog cheery. The mountain fog, in particular, is cheery, because, at this elevation, we are often so close to the top of it, and everything is flooded with light. I know that, if I were to go to a higher elevation, I might look down through brilliant sunlight onto a field of fluffy white cloud.