Foggy Morning


This morning I’m a visitor on another planet, one that’s identical to my own, except for the fog. Fog breaks the light and forces it in directions it hadn’t intended going. The fog brushes my face as I walk, subtly cool and wet. Fog is there, touching me, but try as I might, I cannot grasp it. Always just beyond reach.

Ice floes line the edges of the street, frozen so quickly last night that it almost looks like clear, unfrozen water. I have to step on it to make sure it’s really ice. Snow turns to dirty crystals on the grass, the fluffiness and whiteness lost weeks ago. Soon those crystals will melt, nourishing the green grass.

Now I cross the street on my alternate planet. A Travis tune plays in my ears, sealing out the deadness of the foggy morning. Being sealed away from the world while walking to the beat of a good tune, often gives me the sense I’m walking inside a film. A rhythm driven, 360 degree film experience for one.

I pass frosted scrubby bushes and mulch outside the café. The frost is so perfectly formed, I can almost imagine an army of alien nanobots spraying frost on everything, hurrying to finish before daylight breaks. They must be using incredibly tiny airbrushes.

Then I arrive at the café door. Yellow light cuts the fog at the doorway as I enter. I’m at a small space port on my planet, airlock sealed from the fog. Now I can see my foreign world through a large glass barrier. The buildings I rely on are lost in the fog. I’m pretty sure they’re still there, but until I walk back home I can’t be sure.

Maybe this is how it felt to believe in a flat earth… as far as I know, the world ends at the edge of the fog.

Mike Rohde

Photo: Copyright 2003 A.B.F. All Rights Reserved