Mist

Washing over contorted roots and shapeless burrows, the mist rolls in off the night. Like a vast wave of water riding the air through the glistening trees of Hang Wood. It rushes silently across the pool of liquid glass and gathers strength on the shoulders of the wind, gathering water and speed, moving unhindered through the darkness. Passing branch after branch, trunk after trunk, into the rising sunlight, and into the lungs of a young boy. Piercing and cold, he swallows the deepness of his breath and attempts to shield himself from the damp, earthy air. Beads of condensation form on the string that serves as a strap for his satchel, sliding down and connecting to dampen the string to its core. One of the threads stretches then uncoils, one of many.
The soles of the boy’s shoes crunch on the frosted, waxy leaves that litter the floor of the wood. Mist bites down icily on any flesh exposed and he pulls the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands. The corners of his untucked shirt curl up as the underside of them is made colder and his body heat escapes in small puffs of mist that quickly dissipate. Like tasteless smoke, the morning mist is caught by the dappled sunlight, glazing through gaps in the trees, and begins to lift. A cloud on its maiden voyage.