I thought it was pretty at first, the way the fog rolled in over the bay and completely hid the water from view.
It rolled onto the lower beach areas and the land close to the water.
Smugly, I thought, “How pretty it looks, and how lucky am I to be living on higher ground in the clear blue sky.”
But pride comes before the fall. You might be able to see the mist lifting ever so slightly, rising up, looking for me.
Here it comes…
and here it stays, full of tiny droplets of ice water that almost freeze the air.
Carl Sandburg’s Chicago poem, “Fog,” made an impression on me the first time I heard it. He says it so simply, so “on the mark,” and with beautiful imagery.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I’m sorry, Carl. I find that very often, the last line of your poem doesn’t work for me, so I’ve had to change it.