How would you describe fog to someone who was vision impaired?

Smoke that doesn’t smell? Not quite. Smoke rises and moves. Fog lays thick and lingers but is motionless. The gentle sister to smog. A sheer blanket of gray? Maybe, but blankets are warm. Fog has a dampening coldness about it. Motionless air dipped into a palette of gray paint?

Like a snowfall, it renders everything around it silent as if any looming movement would make the entire gray facade pop like a needle hitting a balloon.

Fog is a tricky spectacle. Thick when viewed from far away. But you can walk right through it and not even realize you are in it. Its haunting aura is behind you, chasing you, but you are walking toward it chasing it all the while.

Fog is a mystery to me when it creeps into my yard (sooner than everyone else around us it seems). Its mysticism only made stronger by that phenomenon. Blame it on the topography, or blame it on my perceptions. Either way, it remains a glorious mist-ery and hopefully, sets the ground up for a quiet night as it lays a hush against the land.

If I had to guess the weather of the following morning I would see clear skies. Somewhere that fog goes between now and then. Where? I have no idea. I will be sleeping most likely when it does decide to wander away.