And they all Fall down

Last week I had a spontaneous thought that I would enjoy this fall. It was Monday and the seasonal mist was beginning to appear in the early morning. Notice that Mist is in the word Mysterious. It is mysterious, the shroud on the trees that lingers past noon. It arises from nowhere, like sleight of nature's hand and disappears into nothingness. I am superstitious about the fog. I think of it like a crystal ball where my own monsters can take shape. It is really spooky when it gets thick, so thick that it trims vision to what is at hand. The world shrinks. I know that there are mountains somewhere and New York, but it feels like it might all be gone. In the fog there seem to be sparkle lights. Tiny, tiny lights, maybe faeries or goblins. I know that these do not exist, yet I also know they do. I will get next to a tree if it gets overwhelming.