The air is dry but fog comes off the river, a saturated cloud snaking its way inland. It envelops stones, limbs, leaves much colder than itself, frosts them all. When the fog comes, it comes in the early mornings. Sometimes it already inhabits the woods as I walk to school, moving among the shadowy trees, obscuring them and imposing silence on the world. And if we are fortunate and sunny skies follow the morning, the jewel-encrusted world glistens in splendor. The sight takes my breath away.