In a fitting mise en scène, this morning’s walk to work in a dense fog delighted me…the eerie delight that one finds in the poetic folding of thought, feeling, sight and sound.

I was walking a vision of who I am: a man existing in cold dampness, existing in a fog.

Ray Bradbury already wrote the best narration.

“One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, ‘We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships. I’ll make one. I’ll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was. I’ll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a fog horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.’”

Here, I was standing, in a November chill, as misty shrouds and sheers draped and dragged across this lakefront townscape.

“The fog horn blew.”