Fog ...

FOG
by: Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

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

I remember having to memorize that poem ... a long time ago ... must have been in Grade Three or Four.

It's one of those foggy days. We don't get a lot of fog here ... it's a late winter / early spring kind of occurence ... when the thermometer finds itself close to 0 degrees or higher and the piles of snow start melting and releasing all that moisture into the air.

I realized this morning ... that I really like the fog ... it makes me think of blankets.

Fog lets you see the world a little out of focus ... edges are softened ... even sounds seem muted ... and there's a cushiony quiet to the world around you.