The River Singing by Lennart Lundh

If there was anything little

about this fog’s feet, you wouldn’t know it by the size of its body, laying a cloak of furry invisibility for miles. It hides whatever waits discovery under your nose, or at best past the truncated cone of the streetlamp outside the window. For all you know; some monster, its roar muffled, is about to swallow your world while no one is able to watch. And then, unlike the fog, her silence in the dark of your single question reveals everything as clearly as lightning and its following thunder.