Fog by Robert Frost
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
We awoke today to a golden fog seeping between the charcoal gray limbs of naked trees harboring in earnest any potential for spring. The challenge of the marine climate along the coast of Puget Sound in winter is invigorating and we are drawn out into this mystical world. With crimson cheeks beneath woolen hats and fingers safely ensconced in mittens, we brave the chill in the air for a walk to the river.
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