(untitled) 5:30 a.m., looking east
Dawn was misted, subdued, so that the sky seemed to glow strangely in the dark; when the sun rose, it rose diffused into shades of gray, and the mist and fog defied an entire day to linger, then thicken. In the afternoon, the roof of the church below us, with its eternal line of forlorn pigeons, was barely visible. Only the trees directly along the temple’s wall were sharp and clear. The rest of the world beyond the gate existed indistinct, as if it were already beginning to fade as it emerged, receeding even as it came forth from the gray envelop on which the date was written.
“The church below us” is, in the dark and fog, only a neon-red cross hanging in the dark; warning or guide, it’s hard to tell. I’ve re-arranged the text, taking it from yesterday’s post and (re)placing is here.