Fungus garden Noël

Tuesday at sunup the black mouth cur and I walked down into the thick fog along the river as a cool night tried to dial up into a warm day. Those misty winter mornings are the most beautiful here, the way they obfuscate the ugliness we make and lend every vista a blurry romance. You couldn’t see the office towers that normally appear over the western treeline, and you could barely even see the bits of soapy discharge that drift in the slow currents flowing from the dam. The herons and ducks were out there in the shallows, enjoying what bounty the river still provides them, and maybe enjoying the way the fog also seemed to muffle the machine sounds of the human city.

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