Fog Is Not My Friend

Outside my window, the fog slithers in like a boa constrictor, squeezing the light from the late afternoon. It’s sunset time where I am on the Gulf of Mexico. And on any given day in this part of Florida, the sky is aglow with a brilliant orange conflagration. But today is different. The air drips with a viscous mist. Quietly and disarmingly, the fog enchants you with its mysterious, smoky shroud. Then before you know it, you’re blindsided by its deceptively gauzy yet tenacious hold. The street lights come on…ghostly blurs of amber flickering in the haze. Some people enjoy the fog. They find it tantalizing and seductive. I for one do not like fog. It’s eerie. It conceals things. It’s scary if not downright spooky. On the road, it’s dangerous. The poet, Carl Sandburg, wrote: "The fog creeps in on little cat feet.” Fog is creepy but not like a sweet, cuddly kitty. More like a slimey, wet snake. And I don’t like snakes. The fog is cunning and conniving. It threatens with a chilling silence. It will snatch away your children if you’re not watchful. The fog will reach out its wispy, fiendish fingers and grab you by the throat and do untold harm. No, I am not a fan of fog.

Outside my window, the mist is subsiding. At last, the late afternoon sun…the glorious, golden, guiding light of mankind…peers out from the murky gray shadows. Somehow, I know everything will be alright again. Sphere: Related Content