A highlander's misted day is softening the blow and blare of all that comes my way today.  Fog moves from ridge tip into the valley: consoling trees, bringing comfort to both mine and stream's edge.  In my ongoing History of Water fog has taken rightful place as Most Ephemeral Manifestation and I feel certain the hundreds of chapters so dedicated will surely justify their inclusion by beauty alone.

The gun has not quite reached into the space of the nonsensical, into the mystical, so I am safe. Today anyway.  And because I am safe today and have an opportunity for self-expression provided by this writable space I am grateful. Somewhat.  Gratitude, for me, is always taken or given under a bit of duress.  Much like the idea of rights.  How can I be given a thing that is inherently mine?  Is the deer grateful for the grass she eats?  I can't see it.  And that's the reason for my determiner of 'somewhat'.  I can't see it. However, being notably less than all-seeing I can at the least explore the word.

And maybe it is the correct one for the day.  It is certainly the correct one for the readers that have come to this blog.  Correct because you have been entirely outside any idea of what is mine by right.  I have deeply and humbly enjoyed the privilege of being read.  As of yesterday this blog has now been visited over 10,000 times.  To those of you who have stayed to read, I will say, without any sort of confusion, how very grateful I am.

To write is a fine thing to be sure but to be read:  that is wondrous.