Riding Home in the Fog

I like the fog. It gets bad press. It is a standard feature in horror movies. Mist and darkness give many people the ‘creeps’. It unleashes our fears of the unknown and the unseen. The dead may walk again in the half hidden world of the mist. Ghosts and boogie men rise up out of it and it gives birth to monsters, but I like the fog. It softens the hard edges of the world enough to allow a little magic in. It collects on the edges of grasses and bushes, shining there as if busy pixies, confused by the blanketing effect of it, drop their dust in an effort to mark their erratic paths.

 I see things in the fog. Up ahead of me I see a giantess striding across the road, hair and dress blowing behind her, fist upraised holding a forward pointing sword like Badb come to life, leading us into battle. Or perhaps that is not a sword at all, but a staff and it is Gaea creating the world I am about to venture into. Or Sacagewea showing me the way, easing my journey.

Usually I see dinosaurs. There, a duckbill, his perfectly domed crest rising from his head in a great sweep, bill jutting forward. There, a Tyranasuarus, great jaws slightly agape, poised over the cars sliding by beneath them. The delicate necks of Brontasuers swoop over the road balancing their tiny heads precariously. Once I saw a Stegasuarus rise up out of a Louisiana swamp. An impressive sight until it dissolved in a clump of cypress knees and oddly trunicated trees.

That is the way it is with magic though, the mystical becomes mundane through exposure and proximity is the death of wonder. The brontasuars resolve into vine covered telephone wires and the tyranasuar and the duckbill disappear in a plethora of trees.  Badb is the last to go, vanishing into a copse of trees containing a few large, gnarled snags that I fancy are her bones. The pixies flee before the strengthening sun, their trails gone until another day.

Badb lives on though, ever leading the way, albeit only in my heart….until the next fog.

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