The weeping mist rolls into the valley. It is a shroud. An unpleasant grey shroud enfolding itself around every branch of every tree until it swallows the entire woodland.
It inaudibly clings to the trees and drowns the landscape. It is a sign of death that muffles every cry that has ever been cried.
By 8 am the sun burns away the dull greyness and the wings of wild birds make the morning burst into life.
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