That thin veil of fog which settled on the ridge Friday night hung about all day Saturday, paling the sun and obscuring distance. Now, it is keeping the night cold. To me, this first intrusion of damp but rainless chill into the season always seems the breath of approaching winter. A slight breeze is now sufficient to bring down the last tenacious leaves. In the darkness, their falling sounds like rain. This is the time to curl up with a hot drink and a book full of warm tales, and have a cat purring nearby. The darkest months ahead, I savor autumns fading scents, storing them up in thoughts as dry flowers are pressed between the leaves of a book. They must remind me of warmth until the arrival of spring's first thrust of green resolve.
In lieu of dawn, this morning, there was fog. It was thin, ground-hugging fog, so that the line of trees a quarter mile south were merely vague shadows, blending in to the denser fog bank beyond them. But above, where a few wisps floated in the paling blue sky, the moon glowed clear, and, above the eastern horizon, the morning star glinted. I saw a flock of swans flying over the nearly bare oaks, and heard their calls even after they had vanished. Moisture dripped from the trees and fell onto beds of brown leaves. The first fog of autumn! I can barely wait for the thicker fogs to come. How I love to walk through them!