Morning Fog

Carl Sandburg obviously wasn't thinking of Rochester when he wrote

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

This morning's fog didn't creep up quietly - it fell with a boom. There was no hint of fog at 6am when first I woke, but suddenly the sky was white and impenetrable - a mist that seemed to fall like a curtain being dropped unrestrainedly and without warning. The whiteness looked deceptively gauzy, like a bridal veil. But its thickness prevented any awareness of the nearest building. No matter how hard you squinted, you couldn't as much as imagine the dark forms of trees, the outlines of roofs. There was only whiteness, whiteness everywhere.

Even sound seemed unable to break through. I could hear no traffic noises, no bird song, no train whistle, no conversation of neighbors. I was shrouded in silence, alone, a prisoner walled off from the world. This fog didn't look benevolently over the city, it insidiously separated one being from another, prevented connections, shrouded life. No glasses you could find would be able to bring the world into focus. It was eerie, unsettling.

The boys were still asleep, the neighbors quiet. I made a cup of peppermint tea and waited, watching for a break in the fog cover. I took a mouthful of the steamy fragrant tea, closed my eyes and sighed, savoring the warmth in my throat and tummy.

When I opened my eyes, every trace of the fog was gone, mysteriously vanished as if it had never been there, leaving behind the gray dullness of a rainy fall morning whose bland color was only alleviated by the punctuation of a few fallen leaves printed bright yellow on the soggy ground below.

Cat indeed. More like wild ornery wildebeest.