It was cold yesterday, and now again today. When I take a deep breath and exhale the warm air from my lungs and thermal interior, it slithers out between my lips and turns into a suspended flag of vapor.
I saw the the fog slumbering on the road this morning and on the river, and in between the trees and their branches. And I wondered what breathed those extensive masses of vaporous ensigns into flight and presence, for surely fog is only a larger likeness of my freezing human breath.
On wintry mornings the great wizardly Oak trees must blink their eyes and peel back their bark and yawn; and from them, and from the dark recesses of the quivering ground, must come the sweet breath of the dirt and rocks and roots. Stretching it's arms, bending and winding above the ground and below the power lines, coming to a stop; sleeping among the waters and houses and yellow lined roads.
