But it’s really the clouds. I keep being reminded of a few words from a song I liked years a go.
“Jean, Jean, you’re young and alive,
Come out of you’re half dream, dream
The clouds are so low
You can touch them and so,
Come into the meadow, bonnie Jean.”
I watch them hanging low cutting the peaks off the distant mountains. This morning I woke up to one hanging low here. Of course the inside of clouds look quite a bit like fog and I would think that’s what it was on the prairie.
I see the grass trembling with a breeze, not usual for fog and the ground is wet with overnight rain. So clouds it is.