Fog

Believe it or not, there's an ocean out there.

One of the bad things about living in a small town is how lazy one, meaning me, has gotten regarding entertainment outside of one's own four walls. Naturally, weather permitting, there is the great outdoors in all its glory, with hiking, biking, sailing, kayaking, blah, blah blah, all just steps away. But it rains a lot, like every day this week and at this very moment, and at times like that it's hard to ignore the fact that in our small town of Freeport there are just two distractions: go to a movie or go shopping. There is no theater, no music, and the art museum is a 20-minute drive away in the big city, so it doesn't really count; you've got to actually comb your hair, change your clothes and gas up the buggy to go there. Locally, there are only a handful of restaurants that serve okay food in not-okay environments, and one good restaurant that serves great food in a so-so environment.

On the other hand, fog is a constant and it is beautiful beyond description, although it does make it hard to see things. Carl Sandburg liked it enough to write a poem about it, which I print in its entirety below. It's short, the way any poem that expects to get read by anyone should be:

The fog comes
on little cat feet. 
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.