Fog
The fog comes
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Paul mostly just stared at me like I'd grown another head as I recited this. I don't think he appreciates Sandburg or the fact that I have this poem memorized. I get no respect.
And, of course, a gratuitous picture of my cat who most definitely does not have little fog feet. There are times he comes down the stairs and makes more of a racket than either Paul or I. Jub has claimed this chair, the small recliner we purchased for the bedroom last spring, as his own. We've given up on ever getting to sit in it ourselves and now just keep a towel in the seat so he doesn't completely muck up the upholstery by shedding.