Little cat feet

Fog crept into the city last night, between the time I arrived at North Campus to do work and the time I left it. Walking out to the parking lot, I mistook the place for somewhere else. Things I'd seen a hundred times before were suddenly transformed. No longer the Midwest, now London Town. No longer electric lamps but gas.


The new Arthur Miller Theater, formerly a parking lot, seemed not the eyesore that I found it to be during the day. The suction cups behind the glass reminded me of water striders.


Through the rest of North Campus and down Plymouth Road, the rest of my drive home was like paddling through a ghost. A dream. Damp air came through the windows rolled down carrying the scent of trees. No students criss-crossed in front or behind. The car made its way softly, trying not to wake the nature that seemed now to breathe between the buildings. The hairs on my neck alerted me to the presence of things primeval.

The last part of my drive took me by Leslie Science Center. Looking up the hills, I saw the distant lights glow orange-red through the trees. The woods seemed afire, and the lights as eyes. I pushed gently on the accelerator.


I was glad to get home.

[The subject line, by the way, is from Carl Sandburg's famous poem, "Fog". "The fog comes / on little cat feet. / It sits looking / over harbor and city / on silent haunches / and then moves on."]