Foggy mornings are a bit magical and mysterious. I enjoy watching the changes in color as the sun comes up, slowly revealing the landscape as if it were wrapped in gossamer. On these misty mornings the Mother Goose poem pops into my head....one the girls used to enjoy when they were little.
One misty, moisty morning when cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man, clothed all in leather.
He began to compliment and I began to grin.
"How do you do?" and "How do you do?"
And "How do you do?" again.
Funny the things that are stored in the old brain!
