The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg
This is the view from my yard this morning, looking not much past my next-door neighbor’s yard. Every time I see a foggy day, I think of Carl Sandburg. “Fog” was the first poem I ever had to memorize. It was third grade, in Mrs. Goldstein’s class. So on this dreary, gray morning, here I sit with a mug of tea, brewed VERY black for extra punch, trying to gather what’s left of my energy for this last work day of the week.
The fog of course isn’t helping my energy level. My toes are still cold and I’d really just rather crawl under the blankets and sleep til noon. This kind of gray, damp weather really doesn’t lend itself to a high energy sort of workday! But at least I know that the grayness of my sky is a small sacrifice compared to what the folks along the Red River must be going through right now. I suppose I’d take a little fog any day over that.
Thankfully, there’s a bit of knitting time before I have to sign on for work. I’d better get to it, before it slips away. Happy Friday! Here’s hoping for a sunny afternoon.
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