Talk about beautiful summer days and the next thing you know there’s heat and oppressive humidity and …. FOG. I enjoy Carl Sandberg’s work (yep, a fellow Scandanavian), and particularly his short poem, Fog.
The fog creeps in on little cat feet.
It sits on silent haunches,
Looking over harbor and city,
And then moves on.
Well, that happened here last Wednesday night and into Thursday. The fog crept in Wednesday at twilight.
It was wet and thick and ripply.
But there was a dedicated fisherman, shrouded against the extreme damp. (Charon on vacation?)
The next morning wasn’t much of an improvement. I don’t think we’re sailing this morning.
The beach was a little worse. How’s this for a vacation day morning? Is there a movie we can go to?
Want to take a beach walk? Just don’t stray off the trail.
And just to finish off with some color here’s a white (alba) Rosa Rugosa or beach rose or Nantucket rose.