She walks with hands of fog, she walks up the stairways. Up into the wetlands of green sky, she walks with the fog, the fog as her 360 degree dog. She walks with the pooch dog fog as it rolls in from the Pacific. But hardly pacified is Lady Fog.
She has a fire heart which even the wet fall feel in summer cannot quench, or douse. She searches out water, she searches the soft side, she polishes stone and speaks in confidence on the Q.T. with elves in the morning, and with chartreuse and magenta, at eventide.
There is a chain of vapour she follows.
Some calls it entrainment.
Lady Fog walks the hillsides and emerges with the wild green hair, the potions of evaporate, the transference of the air currents. She moves in her mysteries of feeling to give birth to words, and feeling is not enough, but from feeling in the hands of certain fogs, comes meaning. What is us, and what is not us, and so, in the fog, the wound closes.
(Photo by Susan, Northern Quebec July 2012)