Though less dense than last night, the fog has again wrapped the woods in its dank cloak and filled the darkness with both rich, fungal scent and the soft arrhythmic drumming of the dewdrops which cascade from the shrouded trees. Yet, while never reaching that density which last night briefly reduced the world to a darkly luminous dome the size of a single room, it has proved more enduring, so that even as late as this, it utterly obscures the moon and scatters its light throughout the undifferentiated sky. The fog is like the ghost of the late rains rising from damp earth, its chill exhalation penetrating every pore, condensing on the skin like a cold sweat, a reminder of both decay and regeneration. Though I cannot see them in the darkness, I sense both the accumulated dead leaves dissolving into humus around the roots of the brush, and the living bark of trees absorbing the moisture from the air, pulling it into the years gathered in boles and lifting it toward stark twig tips where soon green buds will emerge. And though I do not sense the change in temperature, I know that it has fallen slightly when I feel motes of mist icily prick my skin. With rising day, the fog will go to ground once again and soak the delving earthworms. Breathing deeply of the damp, I take in the invigorating chill to carry with me in sleep, so that I might dream of water's journeys. From the pearly darkness above, I hear the call of some swift water fowl winging toward the higher mountain streams where soon the fish will leap into shafts of dawn that spark the tumbling streams. Should I dream of that bird's flight, I will see the grey roof of my world below turn brilliant white and sink away as I soar between blue sky and rumpled green forest. But I'm sure my eye would follow that sparkling stream.