The mountain erased by fog and mist. Nothing to photograph, except the flattened horizon.
Waking to a taste of winter in the middle of July seemed wrong. As if I had been asleep still, dreaming in winter of summer. How could the seasons start losing their meaning, as if they too had undergone some risky exchanges in the hands of bankers and traders trapped inside their games, like caged mice on wheels?
Spring came around noon. The fog started to lift and the landscape blushed into the semblance of its former color palette.
By five this afternoon, the summer light woke up and erased the spell of this morning’s winter. It’s not every day that can hold the best of four seasons. I am saying four, because as soon as the sun lit up the trees, I noticed a change in some of the leaves on the maples.