The fog has stopped at the wetlands, encircling them, but not fully entering. I infiltrate through and enter the bog. A damp chill is the first sensation. It’s colder than cool, warmer than cold.
The slow, sloshing sounds of my boots in the darkened vernal pools seem too loud and discordant, evoking memories of long-lost arpeggios. I head for where I know there’s an invisible curtain of balsam fir scent, and I boldly trespass through it with deep breaths, each a small thrill.
The surrounding fog suddenly decides to ease its way through the trees, seemingly searching silently for me. The movement triggers a prehistoric impulse that only occurs when I’m alone and realize my insignificance: Beware But Behold!
And then it starts to rain fat drops that I can hear gulp giddily as they dive into the pools and become spreading targets. The mood is broken.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 16, 2025.) See also the image in the first Comment space.