Fog this morning. Old tin warehouses, above grassy drop to Darebin Creek, are shrouded like an engraving. Wind meters keep the weather in check, spinning clicking down today. Cotoneaster dark red amidst dark green. Their long streets of verandahed houses elm-shaded, paid historians and school councillors powerwalk footpaths. Dayworkers in beanies and scarves, their plastic and pearls, wait for the train. Broken crust river gums slide into lowered cloud. April fog dampens rooftops, cartops. The Paper Mill is falling down, falling down. Dan Murphy stands sober as a judge. Golf course is no longer lonely. Heidelberg Road is fairly heavy.