Fog

fog-rotator

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

Photo by Carl Glassman/Tribeca Tribune


One Comment on “Fog”

  1. jeandeberg says:

    “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.”

    — Prufrock

    Just returned from a cross-border incursion a few miles to the north of here and saw crossing the Mystic bridge coming home the tops of the dreaming spires of Boston-town disappearing into the soft white mist.

    Like


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