Fog at four

There’s a peculiar quiet that comes over the valley when it fills up with cloud. The river two streets away, suddenly audible. A kookaburra on the ridge, suddenly in your kitchen.

The bakery opens at seven whether anyone’s coming or not — which feels like the right posture for a town in the forest. By nine the fog usually thins and you can see the ridge again, but on a good day it just sits there until the next morning, and everyone agrees it’s a good day.