Fog

Fondness for fog grows in me in my northwestern state.


First came realization that foggy Puget mornings harbinge sunny afternoons on many a day. Rainy days, often as not, begin with rain instead of fog. Surprise.


But then the mystery took holt of me. The atmospheric earth-cloak, swallower of time (or at least it's solar reckoning), enabler of sneaks, wormhole. The way fog is not foggy at all: the abrupt bank advancing over the Sound,  the single motes sparkling sharply for any who care to peer so close. Fog puts you in yourself, dampens down a world of stimuli, illuminates within. Or it forces your gaze on the fewer things seen with greater intensity. That fog can freak you out, too, make you scared of what it could conjure up, I suppose, but it never feels like that to me.


Fog fizzes. Stand in fog, in enough light to see the droplets, it's fluid rendered in 3D mosaic. Exhale, it visifies your breath, wafts Persian filigrees, and reveals winds around you for the rivers they are.


My northwestern state grows fondness for fogs.

Sunday Evening

Sitting here, heart thumping to the steady beat of the Cathedral Lake Singers' grand entry song. Didn't feel up to a superbowl party (it would have been about the first sports I'd watched since Akebono was a new yokozuna), so again I spent the afternoon bringing firewood closer to the house, and now relaxing as the sky gives up its heat, azurizes, sinks to deep moana blue.


Some of the firewood, needless to say, blazes beside me now.


No bone-crunching action for me today.