The fog rolled slowly up the valley, staying out of the sun’s sight. It found a creek bed and followed its course as is twisted between the boulders and trees, the creek careful not to trap itself where it could not flow, while the fog gave little heed to such things and was just as happy to go over as about a boulder.
The fog filled the hollows and looked for shade even as the stray rays of sunlight burned its back. But still the fog pushed on with purpose in its movement, for it knew that others depended on it completing its journey. So even as the sun baked away its very essence, it pulled more moisture from the now distant sea.
The fog skipped onto a stone wall and was greeted by the smiling faces of a hundred flowers. It slipped over the wall and slid between the fence boards to embrace its love. It flowed around each flower, caressed each peddle, wrapped itself around each stem. The flowers danced with the fog’s touch and drank deeply with its kiss.
The flowers knew this dance well, having danced it each morning, but the fog was less sure of itself for this was the first and last time it would venture this way. It knew that in mere moments its life would end – evaporated by an unyielding sun, but it knew that this is what it was meant to do. That it must do like its ancestors had for generations unknown and that its ancestors would do after it was gone – to fight against the sun, against the trees and boulders, the walls and fences, so that it could embrace the flowers and give to them its life.
As the danced continued, and the flowers were left glowing, the fog gave up its last. No longer could it feel its connection to the sea, the sun having severed that connection. No longer did it push forward in search of other flowers – it had found its love. Its thoughts faded as its body did. Now only faint thoughts – love, peace, embrace.
As every day before, it knew that fighting was pointless. Compared to the might of the sun what was it? And so it lay down to die, hugging the ground, hiding beneath the flowers leave’s, but not fighting the end, knowing that its sacrifice would mean that the flowers could fight against the sun and, if only for a season, win.