The fog

I would like to ask whether you know that smell, the one given by billions of tiny drops of water suspended in the cold air on the early morning or early evening. The same one that still has also a shadow of something else, maybe cut grass, fallen leaves, smog, train brakes, and almonds. The same one which makes your clothes feel wet without pouring water, which let you walk in a sensation of fluidity, as if air and water would have mixed forming no sparks but water bubbles. And so levitating while swim-walking one tries to find the known landscape outside the own apartment door, but everything is disappearing in this fluid: in the fog.

The tram arrives out of nothing and disappear into the pillow of drops which embeds everything. Its lights try to cut the fluid, to see through, mostly in vain, until a distracted pedestrian, lost in the nothing, make the tram stop and join us.
If the town would be a clock, it would be still. If it would be a light, it would be a trembling candle in a room too big. But it is a town, and people still reach work, driving slowly, carefully, or walking and slipping on the dry streets. The noises are less loud, and even the busy rush hour looks less quick.
The fog is one of the first visitors who announce the winter, at this latitude. It still has the smell of the autumn, of the dead leaves, almost molding on the ground, but the colors are different. The trees are dark and uncovered, or even white, but Christmas still has few weeks to come. The fog will last few more months, and it will lose most of its charm and become an annoying unpractical dangerous weather situation, until next autumn.