The air is cold,
Yet thick and choking,
As spectral fingers begin to stretch across the land,
Asserting dominance upon the hillsides,
The creeping fingers now more akin to a cavalry charge,
Bringing whatever it can into it's  mysterious embrace.

For this ethereal creature knows it's time is slipping away, like sand through a clenched fist,
And is eager to revel in every action it can.

Falling like a blanket over the countryside,
Dampening sounds,
And playing tricks on the ears.

All I can hear now is the crackling of tobacco and the roar of silence that is the mist,
My nose is cold,
But my hands are warm,
The smell of cigarettes and dew clings heavily to the air,
My own contribution to the beast hangs about,
No wind to whip it out of my sight,
My God is it quiet.