In the warming air, mist spills from the cool stream at the valley’s bottom. In the shadow of green branches, it glides close to the ground; a pale blanket unfurling over the damp lawn.
Then, at the boundary, where shadow meets the warmth of early sunlight, the mist rises suddenly—a column of fog rooted in dewy grass and stretching past the tops of trees, its edges dissolving into blue.
Later, when the day has ripened, a red-tailed hawk—wings outstretched and barely trembling—may spiral upward on this gift of rising air. And, leaving it, glide miles to the north.