The Fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city (and corn fields)
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
DH & I sat on our front porch
sipping our morning cups of java
and watched the fog roll in over the corn field
across the street from our house.
Within a few minutes
the fog had covered the corn field
snuck across the street
and moistened our cheeks and hair.
It felt like the living thing it was.
And, reminded DH of Carl Sandburg's poem (above).