The Smoke Curled And Drifted...

(image source)

The smoke curled and drifted into the silver air of winter. The grey streams had been relentless all afternoon, the last whisper of breath from hearth fires that remained well lit among the row of stunted houses. Their inhabitants had mistaken the grey mist, so frequent with morning frost, as the ruin of the day and had resolutely determined to keep themselves lodged in well-worn chairs and forget the world. But the world lightened, and frost faded, with only the daring dunnocks there to see it.