In My Headlamp at Night Heavy fog presses The air so wet it looks like rain, a field of misty dots I swim through Jazz doesn’t notice, doesn’t mind loves to sniff damp ground tales This blade, that bush neighborhood news who’s courting who Pea-souper fog hugs stories close to ground a kind of watery shroud
It was your post about fog that invited this poem! We'd been having gray days, fog in the morning, but not tule fog. At night, though, fog walks with our dog.
Stories close to the ground; in the ground, sometimes buried deep, but Jazz will find them. If stories are there, they will be found.
She WILL find them!
I could feel the damp! Thank you...
Nice... especially "pea-souper fog." It so is!
It was your post about fog that invited this poem! We'd been having gray days, fog in the morning, but not tule fog. At night, though, fog walks with our dog.