I have a tendency to wander.  Put me in the car, tell me to run to the store, and I’ll take the long way.  Don’t know why.  It’s just what I do.

I get yelled at a lot for taking too long to get back with the milk.  I spend more than I should on gas,  but sometimes I discover things a more direct route would not have revealed.  That happened this weekend and I had enough foresight to snap a few amateur pictures with my amateur phone.

This last Sunday, Spring snuck in on walls of falling rain.  Temperatures rose into the upper 40’s and the warmth and the rain began to melt the snow that had fallen earlier in the week.  Patches of fog rose as a result of the mixing temperatures, especially out in the country and across the empty corn fields.

To be honest, it looked more like the Fall than the Spring, like Halloween.  At times, I caught myself listening for the whispers of spirits, for a moan or a sigh or a shuffle…

The Rolling Fogs of Sunday

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The mist / wandered absolvingly past all it touched, / yet hung like a stayed breath…”  –Philip Larkin

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“The fog comes / on little cat feet. / It sits looking over harbor and city / on silent haunches / and then moves on.” — Carl Sandburg


“The last cobwebs / of fog in the / black fir trees are flakes / of white ash in world’s hearth.” — Denise Levertov


“Even the small-featured country acquires some grandeur in stormy weather when clouds are seen drifting between the beholder and the neighboring hills.”  — Henry David Thoreau

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“It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world.  Great achievements are accomplshed in a blessed, warm fog.”  — Joseph Conrad