If you had been here this morning, you would have noticed how perfect it was outside. A soft rain dampened the empty fields across the road, and on the lake, a mixed flock of Barrow’s and Common Goldeneyes preened themselves between dives. Then fog moved in, gathering everything in its arms. Your hair would have been covered with a fine mist, and it would have felt like breath against your cheek, as if the weather was sharing a secret with only you. The day was the perfect gray of water in the glass you rinse your watercolor brushes in. The only color you would have seen was the brief flash of a Red-winged blackbird and the dusky blueberry glow of a Jay among the wet lilac buds.
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