Fog

Through sleep-filled eyes, I tuned in to the day's weather forecast. The forecaster said, "There's a lot of fog out there. Fog is basically a cloud on the ground." A cloud on the ground? There's a poem in there somewhere, I thought, yawning as the dog and I ambled to the kitchen, both of us hungry for breakfast.

When my daughter and I left the house, the air was heavy with the fog. Beautiful but dangerous, especially in the dark. The sun had not yet risen, so I drove slowly, acutely aware of the deer and other creatures in the area, not to mention children on their way to the bus stop. The beams from the headlights seemed solid enough to cut through the wet air while somehow bouncing back at us at the same time. As we rode through the neighborhoods on the way to school, street lights, stop lights, and house lights put off a hazy glow as though they were wrapped in spider webs, wet cocoons that softened and diffused the light.

While I was gone, a friend emailed me Carl Sandburg's poem, Fog. And by the time I read it, the fog had just about moved on. But not before I had thought, there really is a poem in there somewhere, and made a note to myself to push through the fog of everydayness until I find it.