for the night mist kisses the morning

I get off my bus atop a hill. Normally there is a beautiful view over the fields to Dumgoyne and the Strathblane hills beyond, but this morning it was Obscureville.
The mist was thick and cottony quiet as my footsteps made echo on the pavement. I passed hedges that were strung out with thousands of spiders' webs. All draped in laces of crystal droplets. It was as if a phantom world had been exposed, had spread wide its spectral wings. Things invisible had been exposed in the water traces of the mist's retreat.
So I walked, Alice in Wonderland, down the hill. In every echoing footstep a common or garden wonder; for every footstep is a step into the perpetual present and in this perpetual present every conceivable thing is occurring. Every step teems with the whole of life in the Universe.
Sometimes I need the retreating morning mist to remind me of these things.