Fog Tunnel

It's dusk, the light is blue and low, almost gone, and all around is fog. Low-lying, kissing the earth, the road, the cars rushing along it. Shadowed by the tall trees, brushed with the midnight-blue shadows the sky gifts it, settled to the sides. Ahead, where the headlights touch, it is a wisp of white-grey. The blue fog is like a tunnel, enveloping the traffic, channeling it along a path all its own - apart from the world. If you pulled to the side of the road, would you even recognize what was there? Or would it be as fog-touched and distant as it seems from the middle of the road, rushing past?

It's Night....

It's night, and the sky is dark. The house is warm, but not hot - comfortable enough. Outside, the wind is whistling to itself with the laughter of something that knows more of the world than I do. Beneath its wandering, the car windows have frosted up. I am sure by now there are whorls and patterns, the ones that look so lovely in the fresh-formed frost, and fade so quickly with the sun (or the ice-scraper). The wind is singing to itself down the long streets, while the frost curls in to rest for as long as it's allowed. It's winter. Winter. It's winter.