Dewy
The fog has thinned so that I can see a patch of clouds in which the moon glows, though the moon itself has not appeared all night. For a while, the fog was filled with swirls of mist, and the damp which as formed on everything has been dripping for hours. I can stand in the dark with the plushy lawn under my feet and listen to the drops falling all around in a great variety of tones. There are soft sounds as of a steady ticking from the pine trees next door which shed their drops onto another lawn. There are louder though more distant splatters from the pines across the street which rise over a paved drive. The mulberry in my front yard releases drops from the tips of its bare twigs, and most of them fall softly on the grass, but a few smack loudly against the leaves of the wild plum bushes. From over the back fence, I hear the occasional loud ping as drops shed from a tall oak hit the metal roof of a shed. Even though the fog has mostly dissipated, the night is made restful by the dripping dew. I think I'll pile a couple of extra blankets on the bed and leave the window open to the chill air and its wet music, at least until the light begins to creep in. Most likely, the fog will return to its usual winter place on the valley floor today, and we will have sunshine to dry the damp forests of the mountains. I can deal with that.
