Time Machine

That's what it felt like when I stepped out of the car camera in hand.  The mist was hanging in such a manner that it felt as though I stepped into a  watercolor of green.  The branches hang, heavy from the weight of the deepening marine layer.  The last morning like this I was walking the grounds of our Italian villa. The golden colors of the fall harvest reflected into the early morning light.  It was as though I had passed through a time machine and was back in that rose-colored dining room sipping espresso and waiting for the house to wake.

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