Fog creeps through my yard, my home, my fantasy land. Thick and soft, like a wool blanket, it settles, but keeps shifting, never quite at rest. Unlike that wool, though, it’s not warm, but cold. Clean. Fog is crisp, and smells of air and water and ice, magic. there is something about fog that carries with it mystery, magic, enchantments. It swallows things up, and lets things appear, wreathed in grey and mist. It grants an aura to anything in it, silver tinged light. Fog is beautiful, in its soft, quiet way, not showy like sunbursts. Gentle. It creeps along the hills, like a cat, stalking the world, holding the trees in an embrace, holding the world.