Morning Mist

Cold, misty forests, the wind over the damp moor. A quiet feeling of peace, not overwhelming, but just the right level. A song coming over the wind, a soft song about a gypsy prince. A gray glow from the sky, a predawn light to show the way. The rustle and snap of canvas and rope impatient to be gone. This is the morning world. A soft murmur of whispered conversation, because the silence is too sacred to break. Clouds heavy with the promise of rain, but as yet the air is warm and clear. Trees dance softly in the slight wind, continuing their father’s traditions. Nothing else matters now, except the peace that will soon be broken. Because nothing is eternal, just long-lived. The sun will rise, but not now. There is beauty here, a deep, solemn beauty, akin to a queen on her throne. Some would argue that there is only one beauty, that of the princess with the long hair and fair skin, but they are wrong. There is much beauty, different kinds of beauty. There are many kinds of peace, as well: the peace of an early morning, the tired, happy peace just after a friendly romp, the peace of a beach at midnight, the quiet peace of a sleeping child. Because no one can ever really grow up and escape their childhood; it stays with them, never going away, never ceasing, just pushed down and hidden sometimes.