Who lives in that small house up on the mountain? It is made of earth, wood and stones. I feel its presence here. The pine trees gathered around it look less like guardians and more like friends.
The fog, very slowly, is encircling the house. Grand mountains stand quietly in the backdrop, reverberating with magical rhythm. It is then that I realise I am holding a stick in my hand and humming leisurely, attuned to the magical rhythm.
I keep walking, espying now and then at the small house up on the mountain. The fog flows away, ending the game of hide and seek. I take out my notebook and start to draw the scene. The mountains take most part of the page. The small house is a beautiful speck of white on dense green background. The trees are spots of different green here and there.
The fog returns and, this time, hides the small house completely. I quickly run and climb a rock as if to brush away the fog. I try it literally, when gaily the fog engulfs everything around me. White magic!