Steam Fog

Early October.

The sun found a gap in the trees, lighting an apparition.

A remnant of summer. The river remembers the summer, its shrill heat, the ceaseless light on its face, warming everything along the banks: its gravel, timber, and of course, the water. All through the summer, the river inhaled the sun and held it deep in its belly.

The autumn air cools much faster.

In the early morning chill, the river wears a paper-thin layer of warm, wet air. And it rises, as all heat does, and meets the cold air above, which robs its moisture in an ancient holdup. The heavier air falls, replaces it, curls against the surface, warms, hydrates, and rises like the air it replaced.

Automatic tiny updrafts. Twisting fingers of mist.