Early morning mist on a pond.

I am an early morning person so by the time I rise the night mists remain clinging to the earth.  The air is cool and wet with barely seen shadows patterned like thin drapes bound in gray lace.  On the lakes and ponds the thin fog distorts and softens the light, giving the scene the look of an old painting discovered in the attic, dusty and worn.  A dreamscape extended in wakefulness, the mist will inevitably fade under the heat and light of the racing day.  Dawn is clear-eyed and relentless, a wolf among the nervous reeds.