when the fog comes in

It's been warm enough recently for us to sleep with the balcony door wide open as well as the window on the other side of our bed. If there's a breeze that makes for some nice fresh air caressing my face, which in my opinion is the only way to sleep. If there's a gale, the window to the hallway blows open and the verticals rattle, but that won't bother me. If it gets chilly during the night we tend to fight for the real estate in the center of the bed to seek each other's warmth, since I have yet to put the winter blanket on the bed. If it's raining, the gentle sound immediately puts me into a trance-like, deep sleep. If it becomes too warm for me, I'll stand at the door for a few minutes to let my body cool down before taking a short stroll around the house or just lying down to listen to the soft sounds of breathing from hobbitt and Inti.

But there's nothing like the fog. It creeps out of the woods slowly, eventually surrounding the house. It climbs up on the balcony and sneaks into our room. If I get up my view of the doorway is obscured, and there is nothing outside - no trees, no street, no world at all. It's a magical place that happens only at night. There won't be a sound out there - it seems that no leaves fall, no squirrels or deer stir, and if the roosters crow, I certainly don't hear it. Though the mist won't fill the room, it eases in almost as far as the bed, appearing as soft as smoke.

We've had such fog for the last two nights. When we take our late-night soak, I can tell that the sandy, acid earth is yielding up her moisture, but it's not even a haze in the woods in that early part of the night. Two hours later the woods are thick, and not long after that the rest of the world has disappeared. If I didn't love sleep so, I would like to watch it all unfold.

But I love my sleep. I dream of mistakes corrected, second chances, fates avoided. I wake in a warm embrace, quickly jump from the bed to shut the door and the window, and watch the fog's leavings slowly drip from the glass. By the time my face is hovering over steaming coffee, the familiar oaks and tupelos and the twisty trunks of the sassafras are visible, as if they'd never disappeared. But I know better. I love my sleep, but that doesn't mean I don't witness the night.