Lifting

The fog releases its grip slowly, fingers uncurling from the valley floor, leaving behind the memory of what it touched— wet grass, the spine of a stone wall, the eaves of a house that dreamed invisible.

Light arrives in layers, first amber, then gold, then the true color of the world spilling back into itself like water finding its level. The trees emerge as if returning from exile.

What was held in whiteness now stands luminous: each branch articulate, each leaf a small decision to exist here, in this exact angle of sun, in this morning that has been waiting for the fog to finally let go.