It was a crisp night in early winter, and they had just put in a line of those bright yellow sodium lamps, in a long double-row that winded, curled, and from a distance the two rows of alternating light-veiled cones were beautifully mysterious.
The fog had erupted up from the ground, but not along the freeway. Penny mentioned in an almost-whisper that the dancers rather liked the yellow lamps.
The ladies of the courts of winter, she replied. When the fog is just right it makes their world visible, and they can see the lights in ours, and they dance in their finest dresses and brightest crowns.
But, who are they, I started to ask.
Shh. They don't like it when you talk about them too much. It makes the dance less special.