Fog this morning was like a thick blanket–thicker than thick, a woolly bedspread, a knitted afghan in layers so deep, doubled and tripled, that even the creek bottoms had fallen into clouds. Grey mist suspended in the air protesting subjection to the laws of gravity.
A young buck emerges seemingly out of nowhere. He does not startle at first, but picks up his pace as I come closer, trotting across the road before pausing in the neighbor’s yard, his tail flicking up and down, his two chopstick horns angled heavenward. We are both a bit stunned: where did this strange observer, the man in the SUV wearing a baseball cap, come from so quietly? We both suspect the other of being able to teleport. Not far beyond, a rafter of wild turkeys pause, picking at the remains of a dead squirrel and dozens of black walnuts, all crushed by passing cars.
On the old highway, I see men putting a boat out on the river, stocked with provisions and coffee for a morning of fishing. They float in the fog upon the water, rapids and currents a trance of noise, their fly rods waving back and forth like sorcerers’ wands.
