the fog comes
on little cat feet.
it sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
in ninth grade I memorized this poem, never dreaming that all these years later I'd be spending so much time in a fog.
I am possibly optimistic in calling this soup around us fog ~ some might call it smog, inversion, yucch, haze, film, gunk. the weather forecast is calling it widespread haze, patchy fog, and otherwise cloudy. covering all bases, aren't they?
I, nonetheless, am going to get on my bike and see if I can climb up above it all, find a clean and pristine world, remember what it's like to receive the reward of swooping down a curving road to the reservoir nestled in dell canyon's little cradle.
it's calling, and I can't seem to resist.
perhaps, by the time I reach the top of the hill, the cat will have lifted itself from its haunches and quietly moved on.