For two days, the morning fog has blanketed the hillside rising above the cabin. It is, she is right, a bony, smoky shade. We were standing at the lookout when she said the last. We had hiked up a red clay path on a Gothic afternoon–gray sky, abandoned ruins, blasted trees–only to stop at the edge of the cliff to sit and look abroad and point.
The fog was fast moving. Rising from an unseen source, it billowed and furled and rolled across the scene. When we first arrived, it framed a Dutch village immediately before us yet far off, framed the village, that is, while also keeping it hidden. Soon, the sun had changed things, opening up the view, casting light on the blasted trees and verdant fields, revealing to us the welcoming clouds. All around us–behind, below, far off–the trees had grown up to face the sun. They angled toward sunlight, grew into permanent bends, yearned for more.
Did we yearn for more? I do not think so.
A hiker came up us with determined step. “Cloudy,” she said, looked around, and then proceeded to leave. I wondered what she came for.