fog

When I drove home late this afternoon, I found my West End home shrouded in thick, thick fog. I couldn't see more than a block away from my apartment window. It started to settle just before sunset. I think of fog as weightless, but it was clearly dropping, collapsing in on itself, victim of gravity like anything else. It lingered long and lusciously over the waters of English Bay, softly reflecting the pinks and oranges of the sunset and then undergirding the bluest of blue twilight skies. When the waters of the Bay became visible again, they were still, still, still. It was as if the fog had hushed the waters and lulled them into a quiet slumber, without a single ripple. The lights of Kitsilano reflected in long lines of light all the way across to the beaches of the West End. I've never seen the lights reach that far, that true. And all of this I witnessed from the humble vantage of my little West End nest. Tonight I hope to dream of fog.