There is something about fog that I find comforting. Make no mistake. I understand how treacherous it can be for sailors and even drivers. I remember one horrible night when I had to drive back from Mt. Pleasant in a heavy fog. When I hit the country roads where there were no street lights and no cars to follow, I crept along at five and ten miles per hour, terrified I was going to end up in a ditch or crumpled by a car parked at the side of a road. I often couldn’t see the road in front of me.
But this morning, I am safely tucked inside my house and waiting for the coffee to steep. And outside my window a gentle layer of gauze drapes the garden. Even as I write this, I see the light changing. It is the sun rising higher and stronger, tearing at that garden gauze and muscling in its insistent warmth.
Garden 337 