White Veil by Robert McKee

I stand on my back porch and look out upon a thick cloud of fog. Underneath, I know, are endless fields of cattle and crops, but they are now hidden from my eyes.

Each cove and gap filled with cloud. The fog floats above the valley floor like smoke on a still day. The sun begins to rise and as does the fog. Up it rises from the valley, hovering over the treetops like a craft over water, the foliage disappearing under its hull.

The fog rises higher and higher up the slope until it envelops me. Then it lingers, keeping the sun from seeing the earth and me from seeing the world. I can see nothing but the vague silhouettes of my closest surroundings.

The fog slows life down for a while, making everything cool and damp, the air heavy and the forest sleepy.