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Sounds travel farther in fog. I hear the distant neighbor's rooster more clearly; the sound of the train's whistle is almost on the porch in spite of the fact it's miles away. The screech owl's plaintive trill is more haunting, almost painful, somehow touching a chord of mournfulness and longing.
As a child, I lived on Puget Sound in Washington State. We were fortunate to reside on a bay called Dyes Inlet. There, fog was a frequent visitor, and I remember the mist as a friend (not having to drive in it as a child!), feeling safe, tucked in. Perhaps that's why I also love Carl Sandburg's poem...which I've toyed with (below) to move it from a city by the sea to my West Virginia mountains...
FOG
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over [fields and fences] harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
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I love the mystery and magic of fog - I used to wish like mad I didn't have to go to school on foggy mornings and could instead enjoy the beauty of it all but alas it never seemed to stop the little red school bus from chugging up the valley!
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Julia x
Your pictures are beautiful! Count me another lover of fog! It's an almost daily visitor here. There's a saying -- For every fog in August, there'll be a snow in winter.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written post. Especially liked the sepia toned photo of fog. I experience fog frequently on my homestead as it hangs on the mountains surrounding me. I remember the northwest coast and the frequent fogs -- they were so mystical. -- barbara
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