Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Chicago Poems. 1916.
Fog
THE FOG comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
We don't get a lot of fog here - the air is usually pretty dry - but we had a chilly-rainy day and this fog rolled in at dusk. This picture is taken directly North of the parsonage - the field where 'our' hay bales were was directly East.
The Man-Cub and I took Jack out in the fog - it was eery and fun...
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