"Patchy fog later today," says the radio forecaster.
A certain obscure haze hangs over the yard. A cloud sits just above the stone wall. The air smells simple sweet. The morning feels different. The car is warm, and the ride to work is breezy. The sun blinds me ahead, and in the rearview mirror a deep blue disappears.
At lunch I retreat to the Point. The light house sits here as an empire. Its power and beauty radiates out to the sailors and guides them safely to shore. On many days you cannot see beyond the wave's crest where the lobster pots bob. Today the lobster pots are lost. To the west the haze returns. Though now it blankets the cool calm ocean, rather than the stone wall across from my house. Despite the calmness in yonder, the force still crashes against the rocks upon which I stand. The spray washes me as the holy water did many years ago. I feel absolved.
The haze settles on the ground as the fog rolls inland. The southbound ride home into the clouds blinds me and smothers me. My headlights are useless. Their beacon is lost and no longer guides this lost sailor. Yet, I drive on.
I know this road better than the back of my hand. Does anyone really know the back of their hand? I'm sure I'd miss a freckle, or a pore, or both, if asked. Knowledge and confidence make this ride easy though not pleasurable. I pass on the left. I pass on the right. I lead the traffic, and tail the next.
Through the mist I navigate. The lines on the road guide me home and to my bed I rest.
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