Fog in Montreal

Big spooked houses made of brick stand alone in the fog and orange leaves, film set for the haunted fall. A blast of steam gushes up from the roadworks, fuming around a weird valved pipe in the workman's pit. A glistening heap of tarmac, that scorched satanic tarmac stink. The soft rub-rub of windscreen wipers in the half rain, half wet, rub of wipers over beaded glass. And the fog as thick as oil, so thick it's night at four.