The heavy fog has conquered this morning’s land, yet I must be its ally, for I am pleased to witness its conquest. A chill races down my spine; is it from my joy or the frigid air? Traversing the forsaken hours before dawn, the fog overwhelms my field of vision. Street lamps, no more than two visible in the distance at a glance, throb into existence through the fog. Their warmth, ineffective against the heavy laden air, fizzle out with haste once passed. Even the beams of my headlights are as useful as a flashlight against murky waters.

The frosty, wisping air bears no malice or eeriness this day; in truth, I am the phantom haunting the wee hours. I sail as a ghost ship round the bends donned in the frigid shroud. Grandiose fantasies, and fable-like scenes fill my imagination.

So rare it is to see good photos or paintings which depict the child-like awe that this phenomenon demands. This ineffable birthing of clouds intertwined with and obscuring the frozen landscape fills my soul with joy. I cannot help but praise the Maker of this moment. Such mystery, such wonder, such beauty gently grasps the morning.