Sentinal

Gently coaxed by an on-shore breeze, the coastal fog inaudibly poured into the valley through a break in the mountains, reminiscent of milk being poured into a bowl.

It advanced slowly--its hushed progress creating minuscule wisps and currents which danced as the temperature plunged.

The coldest of the air settled on the valley floor, chilling the already saturated ground.

The darkening gray sky whispered the promise of rain, but not just yet. A plume of chimney smoke at first mixed with the fog, then, like a ghost, disappeared into the mists. First cars, then houses, then trees were erased from sight by the steady accumulation of the fog.

The massive rock, deposited eons ago by a retreating glacier, had served as a silent sentinel above the valley--a voiceless spectator to the changing seasons and the coming and going of a thousand generations of fir trees, ivy and berry vines.

The world turned, wars were won or lost, people lived and died, all to the tranquil rhythm of the fog, the trees and the sentinel.