As night passed, the clouds thickened, the moonlight which lit them growing dimmer and dimmer until it was no more than a hint of veining flickering across the tumbling, dark mass. Then, wind came, but did not clear the sky. Instead, it brought waves of fog that gradually thickened until the sky was obscured. The fog had the smell of moldy earth and rank decay, like the exhalation of thousands of old cellars, or as though countless graves had been opened, releasing ghosts that appeared as fog and drifted through the icy night air, trailing ancient misery of which the pines moaned as it stirred their branches. Though I am usually fond of fog, I did not remain out for long, but took refuge from this chill reek, concealing myself indoors until it had passed. I do not know from where that fog came, and do not envy those in its path- but mostly, I think, they sleep, and do not know what passes through their silent streets and brushes their darkened windows. Perhaps its tendrils will curl through their dream worlds, and they will wake uneasy, not knowing why. For me, I am glad that it has gone, and once again I smell only the damp grass and the pungent pines. I only hope that, come daylight, I do not see toadstools springing from the ground.