Creeping up between the ridges,
Like San Francisco.
The Fog Monster rises.
From the Coosawattee River it meanders.
Gathering itself with the dew point,
It rises toward my house.
I look, then come back inside,
Then go back out later,
Trees have disappeared.
The Fog Monster is not limited,
To San Francisco.
It is here.
It creeps into Ellijay.
Inside me as well.
Life gives us fog and blind turns at every bend.
Love how the old Fog Monster creeps, blinds and even enters us, Walt. How subtly you have painted his progress and the need to be clear-sighted in penetrating and countering his ill effects. xx
fog is a chilling blanket of myriad perceptions and deceptions - each of us electing which it will be for us; mood sensative from electrifying to forboading - I always view it as a giant sponge absorbing emotions - I wish you love and peace my dear friend - Jon Michael
A symbolic and engaging write, Walt. Living up on the mountain here, the fog often forms over the river and it is so thick that I feel I could walk out my window and cross over the river to the mountains on the other side. Thank you, Walt. Love and peace to you,
Both informative and mysterious. I remember those fogs creeping over the hills in late afternoon like a white wall as I drove towards San Francisco. Fortunately, once in the fog, it turned out to be not as dense as expected, just cold and overcast. Gloomy and grave like.
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peace
William
Anna
Regis
Ron
Cheers,
Dan
Charlene Iverson
budd
A think piece like all the others.