I have a thing about fog.
Waking to a day where the view is swathed in white, neighbors fading into the background while rooftops peek above a hidden world. Sight is no longer quite as reliable. Sound is dampened, too. A car appears suddenly, and is then gone, the engine’s rumble muted and distant.
Depending on the mood, the lack of visibility can be threatening, but I tend to see it as an embrace. Wisps of moisture flow past tree limbs and flagpoles, porch steps and windshields. On days like today, those wisps extend, discover, then freeze in place. When the fog lifts, trees are covered in a shimmer of white. Magic made real.
As one writer put it, fog is water in its most mystical incarnation.
I call it a delight.
“And the fog. The purple fog, blue fog and white fog. Film noir fog. How I love the sheer romance of it; disorientating, dominating, concealing and revealing.”
― Caroline Eden, Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels
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J.R. Johnson 
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