Misty mornings are beautiful creatures.
They appear on random days with random waves of visibility, moisture and feeling. Sometimes the old windmill appears lost.
Our little valley becomes a private hollow of sound.
The swish and crunch of the quail through the leaves makes them bigger in your mind’s eye.
The air is still. There is no sound of wind coming down the canyon.
The oak trees welcome the moisture. The droplets get heavy. The leaves release them and the trees begin to sing. Leaf to leaf and drop by drop.
A wisp of air raises the songs volume. A squirrel running home brings a cacophony from leaves and branches, twigs and rock.
The trees sing to the ground and the ground answers as the mists rise and the sun brings on the finale.
The water music ends and the day begins.