LATER:
Guilt. Powerful force, that guilt is. I head out.
Empty. Pathways, bike trails by the lake are empty. One jogger. Brave man. It’s unpleasantly wet outside.
At the entrance to Picnic Point I encounter another person. A neighbor actually. From the old neighborhood. With an unusual degree of formality, we shake hands. You’re here alone? – I ask. Yeah. I often come here. Especially on foggy days. Once I came with my sons and our bicycles. We went up the slushy path. I took pictures of ducks.
No ducks today.
I’m alone again, stepping in snow that immediately melts under my weight. I am close to the shore. But of course, there is nothing to see. Just fog.
Someone once told me it’s tricky to photograph fog. I suppose. A scene fading into nothingness. A robust week turning limp and obscure. Why do some people love fog?
