This morning I couldn't help but wonder why it took so long to get daylight.
I knew it was after 7 AM, because my bedside clock told me so, yet it seemed excessively dark. When I pulled the drapes I discovered my world was blanketed in quite a heavy fog. It hung low, low into the trees. I could make out the houses on the street behind me, but little else.
I turned on the TV and learned the entire valley was shrouded in the grey matter. I was told depending on when the fog lifted, the temperature could rise to 60 degrees (possibly). I decided today would be a good day for a hearty potato soup and I set about slicing and dicing vegetables, threw in a can of diced chicken breast and a can of cream of chicken soup. Boy, this was going to be good.
However, by the time I got the soup cooking in the slow cooker, the fog was gone, the sky was a winter/spring blue, and I am hopeful it will indeed get up to 60 degrees, because I would love to open every window in my house and clear out the last of October's air. Yes, that is a hyperbole. Still, I would certainly like to clean out the air, at the very most it is a healthful thing to do, and at the very least it will boost my spirits...not that I need that at the moment.
Something does trouble me though, and that's the fact this has been one of a handful of weird winters since I've been living in the Pacific Northwest. We are beginning to break records when it comes to high temperatures while clusters of sunny days require us to look for our sunglasses (seriously...in January?). At the same time the snow base in the mountains is frighteningly low, the ski resorts are suffering badly.
I don't want to delve into what could be causing all this unusual weather, GW (Global Warming), but it seems to me this tired old earth is trying desperately to tell us something. I hope it's not to late.
But I digress. I started out talking about fog. I don't know how you feel about a foggy morning, as for me, sometimes I like them, sometimes they strike me in a very different way.
SH April 15, 1988
There is something special about a morning when the fog nestles in the branches of the trees. All the morning sounds are muted, even the freeway traffic can scarcely be heard. The birds, eager for their breakfast, chirp, but their song seems melancholy. The trees hang full with moisture, and occasionally a large droplet lets go with a loud 'splat' that resounds as it hits the plastic covered woodpile. Some days you can almost see things grow, but on days such as this everything seems to be moving in slow motion.
Poor flowers, heavy laden with yesterday's rain lie face down in the soil.
Windsocks hang limp, wet, barely moving.
Hanging chimes make no music.
The earth smells musky, sweetly pungent, slightly peppery.
The birds become impatient, adding a sense of urgency to their melancholy song.
I'll move slowly today, contemplative, I find not only are the birds melancholy,
so am I.