Slice of a Hard Spring

It's late and a thin, wispy fog has settled atop the streets. I don't know when it happened. Last I remembered, the sun was mid-set in a darkening sky. Now every street ended in a gray void. Did the fog creep in, floating like some otherworldly horror, or drop down from above, thicker and lighter than rain? Even this, the palest fog, seemed sinister as it stole building and tree alike from the scenery. Deeper there, headlights became spheres of bright light, that dimmed in the thickening fog. I shuddered as the crisp spring breeze chilled the skin beneath my shoulder blades despite my shirt and sweatshirt. I couldn't stay out here for much longer.

The wind had been dancing with the trees all day, shaking branches thick with leaves. From the greenery sprouting up through winding roots all the way up to the naked tips at the top, it had skipped in flowing movements worthy of any dancer, graceful and perfect.

Now the lights have vanished and the cars with them, leaving me alone with a wind, playful and cruel.