The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
With advancing age, it’s becoming easier to admit things I never had the nerve to own up to in younger years.
I never liked it.
I’ve read it – all the famous ones we HAD to read – in high school, in college. But it just doesn’t speak to me like it does to some. Give me a good book or good music any day over a poem. Maybe it’s something I lack in my DNA – maybe I just haven’t read the right poet. Anyway, I’m not much of a poetry fan.
Having said that, what I’m about to tell you came as a complete surprise to me when it happened. I was sitting at my desk several days ago – August 31 to be exact – and through the haze of words bouncing up on the laptop screen as my fingers danced over the keyboard, I heard the fog horn from the Straits. It so shocked me I got up and moved to the window to peer out – completely amazed – because when I sat down to begin writing, the sun had been shining. Sometime during the last hour, the fog had come in on little cat feet.
Did those exact words float through my brain? Yes, they did – from somewhere back in a high school English class, that little scrap of poetry surfaced and perfectly described what had happened outside my window.
The fog arrived not with dawn, but late in the afternoon. And it happened not only on August 31, but almost exactly the same way – and at almost exactly the same time – the next day also. When we went out to walk Maddie and Bear that first day, I took my camera.
My English teachers would be so proud.