01.01.70
&Mdash; Carl Sandburg said "the fog comes on hardly ever
cat feet," sits "on silent haunches" and watches over harbor and city.
T.S. Eliott, too, pictured fog as a cat, rubbing its back and muzzle on window panes and curling itself around the quarters to nap.
I'm sitting here on a damp hilltop in Uvalde County, thinking it's more like an deep blue sea, mostly still and muted, quietly washing itself up on the beach that is the Living Waters Ranch.
It comes from down in the rivulet bottom, washes around the giant pecans, moves in gentle waves uphill until it expends all its vigour and then retreats to the creek. Back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the sun to pop up and drive it all away.
I have mountains of time to study its comings and goings. The fog and a few ghostly trees neighbourhood are all I can see. I hear some kind of animal, an axis deer or a mouflon ram, clanking hooves against the rocks downhill to my favourable.
Now one of them is raking antlers in a tree just a few feet from my bow blind, but I still can't see. My disregard begins to wander back through time to other foggy mornings, days when I knew the existence, the animals were out there but just couldn't see what was happening.
Source: Austin American-Statesman