Mist rises, fog rolls in,
That is the theoretical difference – if I can see it going up, then I call it mist.
Shroud, cloud, veil, boundary
and as I walk toward it, it retreats. There’s probably a life lesson there.
This morning we can see the mist rising from the swampy places. The trees on my side of the beaver bog are trees, the trees on the other side are giant, ancient figures of legend hovering on the edge of perceptibility. They have come to us from The Heroic Place – just for a few minutes, just to judge for themselves.
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin