We were recently visited by some serious fog. The fog horn was blowing day and night, it seemed, much to the enjoyment of Little e, who never tired of saying, “I hear the fog horn again!” It’s amazing how different the world feels in the fog. Sort of like after a big dump of snow–ethereal, still and quiet. But fog adds that extra air of mystery, turns even a plain old neighbourhood you’ve grown tired of into something worthy of a walkabout with a camera. So that’s what Little e and I did. I also feel less like talking when I’m walking around in fog, as if the atmosphere demands silence, or at least reduced chatter. Maybe just a few toddler exclamations of “Look at the fog over there, Mummy!”
So I’m going to leave this post up to the photographs now, because I think that’s what’s needed. Just looking. Being enveloped and always slightly obscured.
…But I can’t help adding this Carl Sandburg poem first, which reminds me so much of high school poetry, but is still the one I had in my head when we woke up to the fog the other morning.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
then moves on.