Low cloud

The lake was gone this morning. Fog so thick it erased the far shore, then the near shore, then the dock. By the time I reached the water’s edge I was walking into white.

There is a particular quality of attention that fog requires. With the view gone you fall back on sound — the water moving in a way that tells you where it is without showing you, a goose somewhere to the left, your own footsteps louder than they should be. You stop looking for things and start listening for them.

I find I write differently on fog mornings. Less visual. More interior. Something about the compression of the world into fifty feet of visibility makes the poem turn inward instead of outward. Whether that’s better I can’t say. It’s different.

The fog lifted around eight. By nine the lake was back, ordinary, bright. I had four drafts on the desk and a cold cup of coffee.