Fog

Skies are gray, the air heavy as I drive to work. Traffic is unusually light. I zip along Buffalo Road, listening to a Bach cantata. Suddenly, the view is muffled with a white haze.

I drive into it like a fire truck into smoke. I can see almost no distance ahead, and I slow, wondering why the fog is heavy here. Ahead I spot the bright orange flashing turn signal of a car I cannot see, and I slow further.

The car turns, I advance, and as quickly as I was into the fog, I withdrew from it. Skies once again leaden and gray. This fog is nothing like Carl Sandberg's famous poem - perhaps I am the cat today!:

FOG

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.