An early morning autumn drive leads down country roads, splitting farmers’ fields freshly harvested. A fog hangs heavy in the air, tangible and sweet. The silent morning is further insulated by this condensation. As the sun ascends on the horizon, an orange glow is cast across the golden pastures. Then, drifting gradually over a recently reaped cornfield, a thicker cloud-like fog is discernible. Two thin wisps of thick mist, pure white and substantial. They appear as ghostly fingers, reaching out for touch. They swell and become like a veil, pulled over the surface of the day made so tranquil.