These are the mornings to remember in winter. In the stillness of the clear night, frost came down for the first time, leaving the roadside grasses hoary. Now,as if in a dream, I’m walking towards the rising sun with the ragged waning moon hanging over my shoulder. Ahead of me, in the distant, mist-shrouded bay is an exultant burst of calling of the wild geese resting on the lake—maybe a hundred of them now. Who could hear this urgent trumpeting and not be drawn forward, through the drifting, fast-receding mist?
Only the early afoot would be aware of this magical time. Even as I move through the rising vapors around a roadside pond, the sun is ever-stronger on my face. Overhead, at the sky’s zenith, there is the clear blue promise of a fine day to come. For a few minutes, back on earth, I continue in muffled silence. The mist, clings to me, with a breath which is damp and earthy, followed by renewed clamor from the lake. Then a string of chickadees flits across my path, a promise of winter companionship when all the autumn brightness has gone.