Monday, February 12, 2007

Fogged In

A dense fog makes the trees weep, heavy or sad from the extra weight, we're not sure, Pepper and I, as we tiptoe in the eerie quiet, losing each other in the gray of it all. Shapes appear suddenly but softly in the blur of mist pulsing gently as fog does, as if it's alive, because it is, and covers our little park as efficiently as a righteous fog bank can hide San Francisco from itself--pyramid, bridges, and towers subdued by the rolling tide of a hearty pea souper, controlling traffic and people, spectres with headlights and foggy spectacles easing gingerly wondering if they will back-end or head-on collide into other moving or stationary objects. Light bounces off the thickened opaque air, not seeing through to the other side, a wall of molecules collected and convened for the purpose of hiding, causing havoc for travelers and filmmakers, haven for writers and lovers, cloakage for criminals and spirits, trademark weather for cities like San Francisco that wouldn't be San Francisco without it.

1 comment:

Don said...

I'm glad Pepper has found his way into your literary endeavors. And I wouldn't mind replacing some of this cold with some of that fog.
Great piece!