FOG
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
– Carl Sandburg
Sweet metaphor, Mr. Sandburg, but you must not have been writing about fog around these parts.
Where I come from, fog isn’t any silent-footed kitty. Fog, here in San Francisco, comes off the wild Pacific Ocean and hits you like a cold, wet sock in the jaw. It leaves you shivering, your clothes and body wet, your bones stiff and sore.
And, just between you and me, it takes its damn time moving on.
I realize that might not make the kind of poem that generations of schoolkids will be forced to memorize but I believe in honesty, especially about something I love so dearly.
Speaking Plainly 
…and then there’s the fog of war, Brent, it’s also a sullen, angry fog.