A few hours of starlight gave way to gathering clouds which soon let fall a fine mist. The drops drifted in silence, filling the cool air, dampening the trees, until the moisture-laden pines began to drip, and the night was filled with their sound. Still, there is no rain, but only the mist and this steady dripping, and the trickle of swelling rivulets. The smell of it is irresistible, and I went out to walk and listen and breathe, and returned to the house a while later surprisingly wet. I might go out again before I sleep. Mist is almost as good as fog.