It’s been one of those lovely Vancouver winter days where the whole morning harbour is shrouded in fog.
I know it’s advection fog (a left-over term from a geography course) and I love to watch it move in and settle on the water. There’s very little to be seen so I close my eyes and listen. Fog horns are sounding, the gulls are shrieking, metal rigs are clanking against boat masts. Somewhere in the harbour a sea plane’s engine starts to rumble and my breath swirls the white haze around me.
Then, as the sun begins to rise and warm I can see the shore birds backlit by the weak sun.
A few more minutes and more of the harbour comes into view.
But the sun is determined and soon the magic begins to evaporate.
Mornings like today I think on my favorite little poem, a Carl Sandburg poem; the first one my children learned to recite.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbour and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.