Season of Mist

I went for a long run at the weekend. This wasn't entirely intentional as I got slightly lost, but it was, indeed, a poetical morning. The mist hung low over the lakes like Athenian smog hugging the Parthenon. I came across some wild turkeys; it being close to Thanksgiving an'all, they are starting to fill out. They are remarkably docile and I very nearly tripped over one, startling it into giving an indignant "Plok" before it scuttled off. It is no coincidence then that the local aboriginal word for "to hunt turkeys" was, apart from a slight vowel shift, very similar to "to pick daisies".

I have been checking out the local area, trying to find out where the amenities are. We have a plethora of clothes boutiques - testament to all the ladies who lunch, a decent coffee book-shop, and a restaurant which must have the sloooooweeeesssst service EVER. The Post Office is tiny. It would have been closed long ago if it was in the UK. I enjoyed, in a very staring ex-pat sort of way, the policeman coming in and greeting the locals by name. I wanted to introduce myself, but feel that etiquette dictates one should always be introduced by another gentleman to one that is armed.