Today, there were three out of five assignments in tourist spots. One was a historic city (old houses, little restaurants, tourists, atmosphere). The second was a seaside resort (beaches, umbrellas, sun, inflatable toys in the shops). To avoid the crowds, I left early. It was still night. As I drove, it gradually got lighter. There were few cars on the road.
A clear sky, where, to make it less dull and dreary, clouds seem to be drawn in. A full moon, surrounded by a rainbow halo, fleeing the horizon at dawn and occasionally passing through those stereotypically drawn clouds.
The fog, which covered the fields like a thin veil and wished to rise, was pinned to the ground like a collection of rare solitary trees. On the road, the fog managed to lift and hang on the beams of the streetlights lined up above the median. The lamps themselves hovered above the fog, with threads of light reaching down to it, then the layer of fog itself, and at the very bottom, beneath the thin layer of fog, a clear road stretching into the distance.
Cows in the fields. Most are sleeping, while some have already gotten up. A few of the sleeping ones have woken up and are looking at the standing cows in surprise: “What are you jumping up for?” The ones that have gotten up are also staring into the distance in confusion, not understanding where the grass has gone and what this milky blanket is that covers the field, their companions, and their own legs. When the sun warms up, all the cows will immediately start their daily routine—chewing on that grass.
Sometimes you come across groups of three-armed and one-legged giants, flickering with little red eyes, who slowly wave their arm-like blades, either trying to attract attention or to disperse the fog lying at their feet.