Soft gray day drifted into a night of fog and mist. The headlights of passing cars are dispersed into auras, porch lights and yard lights are softened into haloed drops of luminance and the curtained windows of houses float in the dimness like reflections of light in a dark pond. As vague as dreams filled with echoes of half-forgotten conversations the evening passes, time slowed yet still more active than the unstirred air. As yet, the damp has not gathered long enough to break the silence with its dripping from trees and eaves. Though I cannot see them (as I will not break the spell with an intrusive torch) I know that the pine needles and the leaves of the bushes and the metal of the rain gutter now would glisten with moisture soon to seek the ground. I walk through the transformed wood, my only purpose being to breathe.