|Mist moving across the field|
I suspected only afterwards that it might be dust from the tractor I could hear somewhere out of camera range, but I don't think so. It was too white, too light, and it had that particular ghost-like quality, spiraling up from the field in columns of vapor as it drifted, rapidly, from east to west below my balcony and terraces.
It is all gone now, at 11:30 am. The sun is warm enough to have burned it all off, the trees screening the Seine from view have reappeared, and I am going to see if the cold snap in January killed my motorcycle battery or not.
Wish me luck.