Grains of fog pour in through mud-caked windows, and by noon the clouds have encased us in a wall of dull white. There is nothing in all directions; we can't even see the next hill. As the mist moves closer, our world disappears--erased, as in a dream.
It feels so strange to have the sky so close. "Imminent" is the word. Clouds of all consistencies tumble and roll around the valley below. Every time I glance up, a different set of wispy wet titans grapple and twist through the air. I've always observed them from below, but never so intimately. When they wash over me, leaving me dew-drenched and hiding the world, I can't help but feel reverent, made small by these meteorological deities, these untouchable atmospheric gods.
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