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The curtain of drooping willows parts at my touch, and I move from the path, with its walkers and joggers (yes, even at this pre-dawn hour) into the presence of still water.
The mist rises from the little lake, signifying a disparity between air temperature and water temperature. But I prefer to see the mist as a symbolic veil over reality rather than as the inevitable physical result of the meeting of two different temperatures.
As I lower myself on to a patch of low weeds—dew be damned—I can see the crescent moon sliding toward the western horizon. It gives less light than the gradually whitening eastern sky, but focusing on that constantly mutating moon begins to soothe my mind.
Copyright 2011 Ann Tudor
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