A mist hangs low over the pond. The mist rises slowly, like steam from a kettle, while I glide, swanlike, while eggs hatch, while young swans come into existence.
We might have a transcendental experience early on a summer's morning, looking at the mist starting to burn up in the valley below us, or late at night with the galaxies above us.
The smoke went up from an Etna of peat in front of him, played round the notches of the chimney-crook, struck against the salt-box, and got lost among the flitches.