One of the things we expect in fiction is that it gives us a different view of the world: another climate, a different culture, an alternate view of bravery, responsibility, ethics.
One of the daily miracles of modern life is the flowering of all kinds of different views: the earth from distant space, the immensely slowed motion of a hummingbird’s wings, the brain lighting up in reaction to stimulus. Again: providing startling points of view of everyday life.
Such as this. I live on California’s central coast, where fog is a sure indicator of summer–heat inland draws the cool air from the ocean, turning our mornings are grey, keeping our sunny afternoons brief. Fog is a thing one sees approaching, then looks up and sees taking over. Those of us who live on hills occasionally become an island above a grey sea.
One thing fog isn’t is quick, in both senses: fast, and alive. But then one sees film evidence of the secret life of fog, washing over familiar hills in threads and waves. A different view of my own world.