|murky mist towards Eric's field|
The weather has reminded me of Carl Sandberg's poem. This morning when I looked out the window it was all murky and foggy. In other words, proper November weather, the thermometer outside the kitchen door read 4C at about 8:30am. Quickly going out to take some photographs you could hear the drip, drip, drip of moisture falling from the branches and leaves.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandberg, Chicago Poems (1916)
|Shadow mooching, woodburner ablaze|