Fog hangs amethyst-gray, an extension of the cloud cover above.
It laps in fields.
It wraps itself sensuously around houses and whispers, “Sleep on,” to those yet within.
It gathers in clusters in parking lots, like clouds in a waiting room, anticipating their turn to be called up, called home, to that afterlife that we call evaporation.
At the edge of the sky, at the very edge of the world, the sun hangs, a great coral ball.
It is still all sunset glow, as if we have roused it too early from the rosy undertones and purple hangings of its cradle bed.
It’s still drowsy, sleepy, like the beings who hustle to and fro beneath its post-dawn light.
This isn’t morning. No.
It is some displaced, out-of-time twilight, and we confused beneath the hazy amaranthine air.