Fog steams off the earth, keeping the edges fuzzy until you're exactly where you are. Chalkdust, continually erasing one scene and replacing it with another. Chickens scuttling back into their homes. A lone grey sneaker, forgotten, on the other side of the track.
High above, Venice fades into the mist from which it arose. Now the fog hangs like cobwebs. Someone should sweep it from the mountaintops, down into the below's empty spaces.
Veils over eyelids, confident in their sleep. Suspended in the air. Mine wide open.