the fog drifted in like a gauze of mystery.
cotton candy frail.
it swirled and clawed with tendril fingers that etched ephemeral shapes.
sculptures in vapour.
spectres of haze and mist and colossal uncertainty formed on the far flung reaches of snowbound smur that wraps its nebulous self around the harsh reality of rocks and trees and darkening undergrowth and as swiftly as light crossing a vastness of space two shapes form from the vague and amorphous miasma.
sensual and sexless like swans bereft of gender. elegant and dire and without substance or sound.
fell and fearless.
moving as though without movement like mercury across ice.
they see each other and hands raise in silent recognition.
an epicurean signal.
a coitus in semaphore.
they float and circle. filaments in a chimerical ballet.
a vaporous vicissitude that coalesces and shifts as though governed by the random breath of the breeze. their tongues touch and slip and slide. their mouths lock. they embrace and tumble and grow into each other and move like the oceans at the beginning of time when the sun warmed the earth and the ice caps rose and fell and steam rained in a concert of condensation and the spray threw a drizzle that clung like the dew at the birth of creation and all is in echoes and light folds the morning into obscure shapes and designs and then silence explodes from the distant glimmer of clouds.
and they part with a kiss and a sigh.
and their wings spread like the memory of heaven.
they are gone.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.