Dawn light filters through still air, breathing life into the sort of quiet that waits in expectance. Cool rays caress dew encrusted leaves, making them shiver and dance. A crow, similarly adorned, raises its sleek head to caw a greeting to the new day.
And thus, the silence gives way.
Warmth follows close on Dawn’s heels, lifting beads of moisture into the air to curl and twist into milky strands of fog. The fog blankets the land, embracing and smothering, rolling forth without heed for man nor nature. As it crests a hill, it is met by both. By man, and by the nature of his folly, of his wrath. By the nature that is inevitable to all man, and all life: the earth that welcomes and receives, the grass that is nurtured by blood spilled, the crow that cuts a sleek arc through the low-hanging cloud.
It alights on a discarded helmet and announces its arrival to an audience uncaring. Behind it, a gentle footfall heralds a shrouded form. A woman emerges, her visage so ethereal that her dress might be made of the fog itself and her hair of the dawn. The grass bows beneath her tread. She steps forth onto the field, and the fog like a wake slowly drifts at her heel.
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