Magical mists

I sat in a colleague's car the other evening as she drove us home.

I listened as her windscreen wipers thrubbed steadily back and forth. Clouds of leaves scattered to the edges of the dark country lane in the glare of her headlights. I looked out of the window and saw heavy clouds of mist rolling in over the hills.

Misty Autumn mornings or evenings always seem to set the stage for some kind of magical entrance...

A figure, wrapped in heavy cloaks and walking with a six-foot tall, carved stick.

A stag, antlers aloft, pausing briefly to stare in your direction before bounding away.

A girl in a horned headdress leading a white horse.

Or in the early morning city streets, maybe a bent, elderly person pushing a wheelbarrow with a squeaky wheel and a pile of magical instruments inside it...

'Pearl?'

And then, I'm back in the car. 'Sorry, what?!'

Pearl