For the love of all that's holy, this is not another poem about the fucking fog. Better angels have taken care of that. It's just that the fog was trying to hide June and that seemed subversive. The morning's low ceiling. Too much like the white winter we're so lately rid of; its memory, unwanted, lingers. The shallow haze in this Little River valley, holding to the trees, dulling the edges of the windrows. It's very still and maybe the fog will stay forever. Like a midwest Monet, a painting of fog with all the muted summer greens and a sky of steel. But I'm not static, I'm on my way to work, as is the sun. The sky of steel is an illusion, for it's really a sky inchoate and the sun an undeniable autocrat that easily dissolves the morning's coup d'état. So much for subversion.
Seems that Sheryl has noticed the same thing.