Today, after the fog lifts, heavy dew covers every living, and non-living thing. An orb-weavers web, woven in perfect symmetry, is be-jeweled with dewdrops, each a tiny prism glinting in the rising sun. Each pine needle threatens to shed a tiny tear. Each blade of grass is damp. Dew pools and trickles down the granary’s metal roof. It sounds like a slow rain dripping into the puddles below.