Maybe it will be how we learn to exchange stories. Or how we learn to listen. Always there has been fog along the coasts, hugging the coastlines like stockings embracing Greta Garbo's legs. Foghorns flare their warnings and go out. But we remember the sound of fog horns as fondly as we do nursery songs.
Strangers dissolve into the fog.
North America disappears. But the night air is like the darkened room of a s ance, where contact beckons. Moonlight shimmers in the fog, and you think of the light from projectors in old movie theatres. When exhausted, and ready to believe that all is as common and as predictable as summer heat in the Delta, there is fog. Maybe that's why lovers are compelled to seek the privacy of fog.