Meadow fog drifts so thick this morning that the cows look like dark islands floating in milk.

I rested against the damp wooden fence post just outside Utrecht, running shoes soaked through from the grass, and let the camera hang around my neck for a while. The early autumn sun came in low and amber, carving clean diagonals through the ground haze. Every few moments, a black-and-white flank would drift forward, chewing quietly, entirely uninterested in how the vapor dissolved its spine into pure charcoal tone. It felt like standing directly inside a Paulus Potter study, only softer, without the museum varnish.
There is a quiet discipline in letting the landscape come to you instead of rushing to frame it. The polder never hurries its mist away, it just lets the warmth do its work until the world turns sharp again.