Foggy farmstead.

But there went up a mist . . . This morning we awoke to dense fog.  I’m confident it did not make the sun blink, attempting to clear sleep from its singular eye, as it were. From that perspective, eight minutes away by photon express, all was bright, even if we can’t see much ’round the bend. Our days at this address are passing as we gradually transition towards Merida. It’s been lovely living in this grove of sugar maple trees, on this fertile farm. It’s been a promised land, which I claim ever to be beneath our feet. Even if we can’t see what’s up ahead.