Fog makes a mystery of the world, as it sinks into a soft obscurity; fog illuminates the clarity of space as each plane––the near, the middle, the far distance––shows dark, mid-toned, and light.
On a clear day the form of this ancient apple tree––I think of it as a bent old lady––would not show up as strongly as it does with the background grayed by fog.
A stand of dried weeds echoes the shape of pale trees in the middle distance; the fog creates a poetic relationship, and the snow creates the drama of dark on light.
Dried grasses, which just a few days ago were sparkling white with hoarfrost, are now warm colors, a screen before a grayed landscape (ah, the wonders of winter's moods).
Close to us, the clarity of grasses against snow; the distance has two layers, the closer with some color, behind it, gray.
The distant hills are completely obscured by fog; we see soft outlines of bare trees, then the clearer form of a young maple, still bearing some leaves; closest to us, a repeated form of small tree, with dark, crisp branches.
A drop of moisture, hanging from the branch of an apple tree, contains another branch within it. A day like this makes the world seem as though so much is hidden; it feels sad and distant, yet at the same time, it is life seen anew.