Three weeks ago, a foggy mist of milk white hid the horizon. It was still cold. Spring was here but the tendrils of winter were loath to release their taunting grip on the prairie.
Many migrating birds were overhead. I knew this because I could hear them.
I always tend to marvel at the ability of migratory birds especially, their instinctual ability to navigate blindly through inclement weather and unseen territory while they fly toward their new destinations.
I heard familiar honking in the distance. The recognizable sound was that of the Canadian Geese as they arrived in droves while fog shrouded the land. Other flocks of migratory birds were also flying in. Their types were harder to discern with listening ears because the opaque wall inhibited any clear view of the arriving birds and muffled the sounds of their songs.
The misty cold weather was surreal. Unending fog can be depressing to some but I enjoy the damp, cool weather and find the wall of cloudy white strangely comforting, even safe. I like the idea of disappearing behind a veil of white. It’s private. I especially like walking in the fog, mainly because I am obliged to use my other senses and am forced to pay closer attention to what’s in my immediate circle during the hours before the fog relents to the rays of the mid-day sun.
But, that day, I was imagining what it would be like to spread open the white wall of fog with my hands as if it were curtains and step through it. I was wondering if it would it be a clear day or magical world on the other side of the curtains when a knock interrupted my whimsy.
Knock, knock.
Knock.
“What’s knocking at my front door, it’s not like a knocking that I’ve heard before,” I wondered. (more…)
The Trefoil Muse 