It’s just above freezing on the edge of the Great Plains. Gnarled, leafless branches lurch through the gray, silhouetted against a sky of such pale blue that it blends with the fog.
The air is still and moist, dampening any noise. The fog doesn’t swirl like in a horror film, it simply blankets the ridges of the nearby forest.
Cold and dampness bite through the layers of hoodies, fleece and caps. It’s not something a Southerner could understand, let alone appreciate.
It’s November for a people who fully know four seasons. The still fog persists even as the temperature edges higher. The annual grayness arrives. Its resulting beauty transfixes.
Night bleeds away the daytime. The churn of seasons helps you acknowledge the passage of time. It tugs at your mortality even as it pulls you into its circle.
It’s not yet time for snowfall, but your heart knows it’s near. The chill heralds Yule, the winter solstice, less than a month away. The fog will give way to flurries that thicken and conceal the stark black branches.
It will come.
