Yesterday, the morning drifted in ghostly fog. Gray-white mist closed in, shrunk our world in a wispy tent. In the willow-white air, trees emerged as black bony fingers, stark and wet.

In such a landscape the Lady of the Lake must have raised her sword to Arthur. Grendel skulked toward the Mead-Hall to grapple with Beowulf. William Wallace rose to defend his homeland.

From the brightly-lit classroom, my students and I stare out the window into the mythic mists, then bend again over our books.

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