On Thursday we went to the park. It was quiet and still, and mild for this time of year (not too far from 50˚). What hit me when we got out of the car was the smell: loamy and damp and fecund, utterly alive. I grinned; I just couldn't help it. That scent will lighten anyone's heart. We pootled about along the creek for a while--no fish, birds drowsing in their drowsing places--then headed back to the car. And mist rose out of the ground like something from a bad horror film. Phhoom. One minute clear, the next minute mist a meter deep on the ground--and the air turned cold on the backs of our necks. We went up to the lookout and watched the gulls floating on the sound--no birds were feeling like flying that day--where, again, it was very quiet. Even the water seemed subdued, silky and thin rather than heaving and huge. But there was no sign of mist.
Then we went home, ate lunch, and I wrote 1,500 words of Hild: a rare, serene day for the end of the year.
I hope your days have been equally lovely.