A misty morning with coffee.
After two days of wind and driving rain, it had to happen. The Northeaster relented, allowing the moisture-laden air over the cold Atlantic to slowly condensate into a silent wall of fog. It eagerly slides over subdued cumbers and onto the seaboard. And up in our glen, it seeps into the space between cypress, maple and pine. Maddie, the Schnauzer, yawns for a morning pee at four thirty, and taking her down to the yard, I listen to the dripping trees that patiently wait for the dog to shake it off. There is not a breath to stir the maples’ leaves. It’s too dark to see the fog, but one feels the clammy shroud. At seven, Maddie poo-yawns and then, outside again, the trees are phantoms in a slow dawn. A booboo rings clearly in the ravine stirring a drongo pair in a pine into excited chatter. The fog muffles the upstairs neighbour’s cough, liquidiser and toilet flush. In our apartment, Ginger and the dog curl into bean shapes on the couch. Coffee completes the experience — thank you to the ANC for not shedding load early today.
(Photograph courtesy of Derek Keats)