Fog descended at last, to wreath late afternoon in gray vagueness, turning trees to smoky shadows and concealing the sodden distance. The pines dripped, and the bare knuckled mulberry twigs glistened with beads of water. Light faded, and I heard birds cry. They sounded like gulls, but I never saw them, hidden as they were by swirling mists and falling dusk. Now, night still resounds with dripping water, though the clouds have begun to break, and scattered stars are appearing. The fog has withdrawn for now, but the next storm will soon arrive. We are unlikely to see the sun anytime soon. That part of me which revels in dismal days is joyful. It springs from the year's decay like a rare fungus, waiting to be picked and savored.