Fog…Not Cat’s Feet At All


01/12/2015 by syrbal-labrys

15-01-12-12_2014-12-01 Day 71 Trees in Fog 1_croppedI had to drive to the vet early this morning.  Nothing sets up the day like a scolding by phone FROM the vet for not already being there.   But the email said 0950 and I planned to be there at 0900.  But no, their “computer” doesn’t email the right times for surgical drop-offs and I should have known better.  Oh, really?  Well, take me off your fucking computer’s email list then, if it misinforms me and then the human staff scolds me before I’ve finished my coffee.  So, out I go with unhappy woozle.  Into fog.  Fog so heavy that anyone going over 30 mph is over-driving their headlights.

Fog like a shroud,

Over every tree,

Wrapping each house,

Dimming each light....

All the requisite idiots are at large.  The red sports-car roaring around you at a stop-light, the bus driver almost hitting a van — both driving with NO headlights, the bike-rider texting instead of crossing the road with HIS light and almost being hit when he belatedly pedals out, and the imbecile behind you driving with his high beams on, in your mirror, of course.

Crows sit disconsolate,

On dripping bare branches,

Pin your hopes on red,

Traffic lights for navigation…

The fog is so heavy it even mutes sound.  And on the backroads, you feel as if you’ve slipped into some human devoid twilight zone-ville.  My mind slips a bit into irrational: turning right at a four-way stop, I suddenly think, “Oh, what if this road does not meet my connecting road?” while absolutely knowing (right angles being as they are and all!) that it utterly DOES meet the correct road eight blocks east!  Yes, the fog is so dense and white that every looming shape might be something monstrous.  A bobbing yellow mass 100 feet away resolves into a brightly clad runner.  A distorted series of shadows is a mother and four children, seemingly unaware of the risks of fog-walking on the road.

Street signs vanish,

As mirrors in smoke,

A gray car on a gray day,

Passes out of sight…

I hear whistles off to my right, a school play-yard there is invisible.  How can you practice soccer or football when the ball vanishes when kicked?  Brake lights make a red plume of brilliance, like the Firebird’s tail…a dog had a narrow escape.  Just a bit further, and I hear sirens wailing.  Somebody did not escape?  That fool in the sports-car?

It is almost mid-morning,

But blindness prevails,

White nights or white days,

January in the Northlands….

I stop to pick up milk and fruit.  The store is so bright inside, I blink my eyes like something from a midnight cave dragged into the noonday sun.  Raspberries in January.  “Spring” lamb before the springtime.  Outdoors it is nearly medieval with the possibility of ghosts and monsters; indoors it is surreal with what technology supplies.  I want to escape both, on this, my “day off”.

White, but not snow-white,

Give me white, alright!

Take me back to my bed,

To warm feathers white as fog.


One thought on “Fog…Not Cat’s Feet At All

  1. Leo Knight says:

    This reminds me of when I used to live in a rural area west of Baltimore. Two lane roads, curves and dips, challenging any time, but especially in bad weather. Deer made it even more fun. Cowboys in souped-up pickup trucks would tailgate and blaze away with their high beams. One night, we had to drive home in fog so thick we could only see a foot or so beyond our car’s hood. I encountered the same idiots you describe, trying to outdrive their own visibility. It reminded me of the old Outer Limits episode “Feasibility Study,” where an entire town is whisked away to a fog-shrouded limbo.

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The name of this blog, and my Dreamwidth blog, Herlander Refugee, is taken from a 1915 feminist novel "Herland". It makes my heart sing that modern women are experimenting with creation of a new "Herland"! Yes, comments are closed. Anyone who just MUST reach me can do so at syrbal6 at gmail dot com.

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