Morning Mist Above the Road

At six-thirty, the air on the mountain pass is twelve degrees. You drive with the vehicle windows slightly cracked to keep the glass from fogging. The road is empty except for the occasional pickup truck carrying crates of highland cabbage down to the market. For miles, there is only the gray ribbon of asphalt, the damp smell of pine needles, and the white ocean of mist sleeping in the ravines below.