Yesterdays weather pattern brought us the much looked for early morning fogs. Those friendly obstructions to visibility filling the woods and hollows, creeping out into the open spaces, finger of which make the familiar softer and slightly strange, as if ones position on earth has shifted.
While the soft fog was arguing mildly with the rising sun and lifting and shifting, I was happily creating noise in the confined area of my garage, preparing the mower for the first serious effort to halt the rise of the dreaded grasses,
Whipping out the drive, headed for the public areas first off, I drove my machine of mass execution northward at a slow pace enjoying the caress of the misty fogs and saw, on the Renters fence line two buzzards in the still leafless Sycamore tree.
Stretching and shaking off the nights moisture, preening the chest feathers straight. Shaking and stretching more, the closer I approached, never frightened, concerned only stwith their readying for their day.
I made two rounds of my chosen area and started the third when the mists had lifted far enough to thin to invisibility when the buzzards dropped from their eighty foot sanctuary, struggled for altitude, locked their wings and glided quietly from view as I finished my third turn, putting my back to their flight.
The quiet of the morning, and its freshness, remained with me most of the day.
From the reaches,