On Thursday we went to the park. It was quiet and still, and mild for this time of year (not too far from 50˚). What hit me when we got out of the car was the smell: loamy and damp and fecund, utterly alive. I grinned; I just couldn’t help it. That scent will lighten anyone’s heart. We pootled about along the creek for a while–no fish, birds drowsing in their drowsing places–then headed back to the car. And mist rose out of the ground like something from a bad horror film. Phhoom. One minute clear, the next minute mist a meter deep on the ground–and the air turned cold on the backs of our necks. We went up to the lookout and watched the gulls floating on the sound–no birds were feeling like flying that day–where, again, it was very quiet. Even the water seemed subdued, silky and thin rather than heaving and huge. But there was no sign of mist.
Then we went home, ate lunch, and I wrote 1,500 words of Hild: a rare, serene day for the end of the year.
I hope your days have been equally lovely.