Clear Glass in the Mist

I drag my index finger across the cold glass table on the porch. The morning fog has laid millions of tiny wet beads across the flat surface. Where my finger pushes, the white haze wipes away and opens a clean, shining line! I lean low and peer straight through the clear glass streak. The red patio bricks below look sharp and close, while all around stays pale and cloudy. I press my flat right palm hard against the wet film. When I lift my hand, a crisp print of my five warrior fingers remains on the glass. Even without bright sun, the cold mist makes wonderful viewing portals.