Morning Fog

Morning Fog This morning when there is much to do inside, there is fog outside my window. The fog I sought two mornings ago that caused me to dash to the car in hopes I could grab a coffee and sit by the lake, witness to the softening of the world, treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams. By the time I reached the street rain had dissolved, captured, drunk up the tiny molecules of water playing fog. I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road, found myself coffee and a breakfast by a temperature controlled fireplace. Despite the rain, the little cafe quickly became peopled and I had to move on. The soft shield of fog was what I was hungry for, not the food I left half eaten. The desire to be fogged in, alone or companionable, putting thoughts to paper or contentedly one with the downy view, the lack of detail, the absence of certainty, the enveloping moisture making all things remember what it was like to be born. We are all born In some kind of moisture -- pushing through the dark damp soil, or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh, causing someone pain for the first of many times. Or we peck our way through a fragile/sturdy shell, wet with possibility, or we're loosed with a hundred siblings into a salty waterscape of danger, calculating our chances. For all of us, our first vision must be a little foggy, our possibility of success unclear. But every foggy morning crawls into my soul to whisper what it could be to be reborn.