Good morning fog, or is it, Good morning, Fog!

  The morning fog lies low, a thousand feet below my perch, obscuring the valley from view and its busy commuters racing to punch some remunerative clock.  This is my rarest of days with no work in the queue, but a multitude of chores to be attended.  I have spent the last two cups of coffee posting and commenting on posts, and a few more private writings to a friend and confidant.

 

  I can’t know what this Tuesday will bring other than the inevitable late morning lift of the mists that roost each morning in the crevices of these mountains; a lift that will bring the masking white to block my vista on its way to join the clouds.

  The growing season has ended and the ragged remains of my summer vegetables have to be discarded, the garden soil turned and winterized, and the beds that dutifully fed my table returned to a bleak resemblance of a yard (if you can call 60 square feet of flat area on the side of a mountain, a yard).

  Once my well neglected chores are over, I hope to ride into town; there are friends there that are as unattended as my household duties.  My schedule has kept me captive for weeks in my glass enclosed office, viewing the sunrises and sunsets through blind covered windows.  It often reminds me of a writing professor’s advice to put to paper not the world you see, but just a tiny sliver, the view through a single slat in a Venetian blind.  It is there that you find the most interesting stories.  My experience has taught me that he was right, most people only can see the vast world before them and miss the important nuances that poets and writers exploit to quell their addiction’s urges.

  The cottony vapors have now risen to the tree tops of my mountain below, clawing up the grade to darken my windows.  My coffee is gone.  My day has begun.  And there are tasks to be done.