Little Cat Feet

Carl Sandburg once likened fog to a cat- creeping on little cat feet; "It sits looking/over harbor and city/on silent haunches/and moves on." Driving home last night, the fog was more like a tiger keeping sentry over the interstate. Or, to leave the cat allusion altogether, it reminded me of the billows of a debutante's skirt as she floats her way though a waltz. It wasn't consistently heavy, it flowed in and out, overwhelming the windshield and then clearing moments later. It hid the moon, but not so strongly that there wasn't the sheen in the sky of light trying to break through the pressing darkness.

I like driving at midnight. Even on nights without stars, there is something of the magical in every night sky.