Morning Daydream

I love a wet, foggy winter morning. The air is full of cool mist and there's a drop of dew on every blade of grass. It reminds me of home.

Sometimes the fog is so thick that I can't see beyond the edge of my back yard. There is only an opaque vastness. I almost forget where I am.

I like to imagine that there's a forest in the distance. I will wander into it and lose myself, walking on soft needle padded trails through the fir scented darkness. I hear the gentle swaying of tree branches and the delicate patter of rain. I emerge onto a beach with a wide gray sky and salty gray-green waters gently lapping at the shore. Across the channel I can see hazy blue peaks tipped with snow. Searching the damp sandy ground, I find a spiney purple urchin, a flat fuzzy sand dollar, a smooth red jasper, a bright clear agate, even a highly coveted piece of deep blue beach glass. If I close my eyes and breathe deeply I can feel the crisp breeze against my cheek and the fresh salty air in my nostrils.

When the fog clears and I see once again beyond my own back yard, I am reminded by the flat river valley below that I am far from home. How I miss the Puget Sound and all the beauty that surrounds it.

Some day I hope to return, to be surrounded by the sea and the forest and the mountains. Until then, I wait each winter morning for the dense fog to provide a blank canvas on which I can create my own vision of the world beyond.