Every few months I get to wake up in excitement. Stepping out of my room I can feel the fresh morning air breezing through my apartment. With a sleepy trot I follow the gentle breeze to my bathroom window to be greeted by the phenomenon of changing seasons.
The mist sea.
It happens early mornings of mid fall and early spring. It is a sight only to be witnessed by the early birds and rising sun. A cloudy, grey sea that stretches from the valley to the horizon, drowning everything into its depths except the hilltops, which poke out like tiny green islands.
It makes it seem as if my hilltop itself is an island, floating amid a cloudy sea in the sky, shaped by high winds and fluffy grey waves over the century.
The mist has a strong flow and before the sun rises fully it floats away.
And once it does, I am only left to wonder as I look out at the reemerged hills and valleys. What does this cloudy sea have to hide from the sun’s rays? What things float away with it only to be cast onto a foreign shore?
Perhaps it hides secretive cryptids which pass between hills. Perhaps it helps souls and spirits off to the New World in search of a better Afterlife rather than the one the quiet hilltops have to offer.
But the quiet hills do not ask such silly questions so early in the morning. They only wonder what they could have possibly missed at a time the whole world is sleeping in.