Driving home last night the fog was alive, furling around tree trunks, crossing and clogging the canyon roads, everything dark except for the occasional flare of a pair of eyes, a wild thing in the brush, brushed by the headlights.

This morning everything's gray, last night's shifting mists congealed, slow skies, low-flying birds, and a certain border collie urging that we ignore the clocks and go farther, further, deeper into the woods.