My husband’s admonition brought my head up from where I was scrolling quickly through Facebook on our morning drive to work.

“You have to see this.”

I looked up and he was right: I did need to see it. As we crested a hill, I could see the mist hanging over the fields in the barely-there sunlight. But it wasn’t mist like I normally expect it.

Misty clouds hung  over frosted, harvested fields like great birds hovering at their nests. The frost still hung crystal-white over the stumps of shorn cornstalks, the clouds refusing to leave their charges to the burn of sunlight just yet.

They were ceilings of misty gray, high enough to drive under but low enough for you to stick your hand up and out the window and touch.

Further on back across the fields from the road, the hazy clouds blanket and veil copses of leafless trees. It is as though they are endeavoring to make up for the glory that the trees have recently shed, covering their naked branches with silken silver.

Yes, he was entirely right: I had to see it.