A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
If you get up early enough on a foggy morning on Cape Cod, you can join other early risers who enjoy the muffled world of a fog-shrouded seaside. Gulls, walkers, fishermen, and maybe if you’re lucky, a strolling guitarist.
On Cape Cod, the fog doesn’t “come in on little cat feet.” It swirls and mists around the edges of things, hangs in the trees, settles in low places, and then suddenly, you’re fogged in. The quiet is deep and enveloping. But look closely.
I hope you rise early on the next foggy morning and experience the magic.
See you soon.