thick

I’m up early. Typical weekday habits. The sun isn’t anywhere near ready to throw light, but that’s not saying much. These days it seems like mornings take forever to become something other than night.

I’m at my computer, working, hardly noticing the world with now predawn light.

Finally, I look up. What’s this? It seems awfully undefined out there.

Fog. I go up on the condo roof to see how thick it is. Doesn’t look too bad from up there. But is it coming or going?





By the time I set out for campus on my bike, I know the answer: it’s coming. It’s a chilled pea soup out there. I notice there’s a light patchy frost on the ground. My camera is dripping as if it had been hit by a shower. I’ve never biked through fog before.





It’s biting, but manageable, except on the descent. Then I feel like I’m plunging into nothingness. Not too many hills though. When you approach the isthmus, things level out considerably.

And by the time I'm on the path to Picnic Point and the lake, I see that the battle is done: the fog made a grand entrance and a speedy, wimpy retreat.






I can pick out distant buildings. Loons in the foreground, the Capitol, somewhere there...






Yeah. Looking back at Picnic Point I see that the day will be ok.






Today, I’ll take "ok."