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.
Yesterday, San Francisco was brilliantly, extraordinarily sunny and mild; it brought out the happiest and best in us. You can read all about it here.
Today? Somewhat different story.
Fog, thick and moist, obscuring neighboring houses, not just the city’s landmarks, is blowing in from the great and mighty Pacific. Car headlights are on, for all the good they do. Kids bundled tight, fighting the cold and wet wind on their way to school.
The dog and I will brave the cliffs overlooking the ocean for our walk. I’ve decided on four layers – cotton, cotton, fleece, windbreaker; it will still likely be a fruitless attempt at staying warm. Once the moisture finds an opening, you’re done for.
Oh, and then there was this morning’s little earthquake. Yes, we’re all fine here. Thank you for asking. To be honest, a 4.3 earthquake, as my friend King Kaufman said earlier, doesn’t even get us out of bed.
As much as it was right to give thanks yesterday for the sun, I give thanks today for the fog, just another expression of life’s beauty. Earthquakes, not so much.