Mornings are always magical in the mountains, but never more so than when heather-grey fog fills the hollow. I walk quietly among the balsam pines, sentinels along my path, their limbs gently holding me fast to a place I love dearly. I nod as I pass in homage to the trees age and perseverance through rime ice frostings, snowy-wind dances, pumpkin-hued sun flakes and starlight kisses.
I know the path through the trees well…we are old friends. My feet step sure with the fog’s dampness clinging to my skin and hair, a soothing balm in the fast fading warmth of summer.
Outlines of cows enjoying their alfresco breakfast of emerald grass emerge from the fog as it lifts upwards, chased by the sun as if engaging in a spirited game of morning tag.
I focus my camera lens in an attempt to capture the ethereal images before they become clearer and somewhat more ordinary sans the gossamer fog curtain.
Turning homeward, I stop to fling a prayer to my heavenly Father, the giver of this beautiful experience and of all perfect gifts. I feel as if I’ve walked through heaven’s breath.
This precious time of sweet, quiet fellowship with my creator will come again when another morning dawns draped in folds of fog. I will walk once more on the path and know that He is God before the world clangs with noise and draws me into the business of everyday life.
Sweet Readers, mornings are indeed magical in the mountains.
The Spirit of God has made me;
the breath of the Almighty gives me life.
Job 33:4 NIV
Love you bunches,